Higher Heritage
by chappysmom
Summary: John looked up, face calm again. "It's not the way I would have wanted you to meet, but … come in. Father, this is my flatmate and best friend, Sherlock Holmes, and my good friend Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Sherlock, Greg—this is my father, Jonathan Brandon." He paused to swallow. "Earl of Undershaw." (Part of the "Heritage" series of AUs. 8 Chapters.)
1. Chapter 1

Notes: So, I wrote two mirror-image stories, "Heritage Trust" and "Trust Heritage" that gave John a wealthy upbringing but where, in one, his father disowned him and, in the other, he did not. In both, John still made his own way, still joined the army, was shot … all the rest of the show's canon that made him Sherlock's flatmate.

Well, here's yet another go at this "What If" kind of AU. What if all that were still true—the upbringing, the army, the rest—but what if _one_ thing were different? What if John's father had been the Earl's _older_ son, rather than the younger one?

* * *

"I'll see you Sunday, Father. You just worry about getting Grandfather to a doctor he'll actually listen to. Maybe he'll believe it if someone else scolds him about his cholesterol."

There was a laugh at the other end of the line, a few more exchanges, and then John ended the call and stuffed the phone back in his pocket, turning toward the kitchen. "Tea?"

"You were talking to your father," Sherlock said.

"You really are a brilliant detective, aren't you?" John asked, teasing. "What gave it away? My saying 'father'?"

Sherlock gave a small smile. "No, it's the way your face relaxes—no-one else you speak with elicits quite that response from you. Certainly not Harry. You're fond of him."

"Well, of course I am. He's my _father_," John said.

"That doesn't always follow, John. I had a father of my own, you know, and fond is not a word I would ever have used to describe our relationship."

John gave a nod as he rooted through the cabinets for the tea things. "True. We have a better relationship than most, even if we don't understand each other very well."

"I'll have to meet him some day," Sherlock said.

John laughed, thinking about his family and all the things Sherlock didn't know about them—about him. "That will be an interesting day."

#

They were just finishing their meal at Angelo's when his phone rang. John glanced at Sherlock who was riveted by something outside the window. Shrugging, he pulled it out to look at the screen. It wasn't a number he recognized, though, so he denied the call. They would leave a message if it was important.

It rang again as he was pulling on his coat, but by the time he'd maneuvered his arms through the sleeves and dug the phone back out from under the gloves, the call was gone.

He met Sherlock's eyes and shrugged. "I'm awfully popular all of a sudden."

Stepping outside, they turned and started walking home, making fast work of it in the steady drizzle.

They were just about to turn onto Baker Street when they saw the blue flashing lights burning through the fog and both John and Sherlock's phones rang. "Oh, Christ," said John, breaking into a run.

"John! Thank God," Greg greeted them moments later.

"Mrs Hudson? Is she…?"

"She's fine," he hastily reassured them. "But I'm afraid it's bad news, John."

His phone rang again, vibrating against his hip, and John felt a chill run up his spine. He reached for it as he said, "Tell me."

Greg's eyes were warm as he said, "Car accident. A truck slid through a red light and blindsided the car. It looks like a combination of wet road and bad brakes, but … the Earl of Undershaw was killed instantly. You're listed as the emergency contact, and you know—these days, anytime your name comes up in the system, it lands on my desk."

John nodded numbly, and glanced down at the caller ID, almost fumbling the phone as he hurried to get it to his ear. "Father? What happened? Are you all right?"

"_No, I'm sorry this is St Marys Hospital. You're listed as Jonathan Brandon's emergency contact?"_"

The ice in his stomach grew huge, jagged edges. "Christ, yes. How is he?"

There was a pause at the other end of the line. "_You might want to get here as quickly as possible._"

"Right." He said as the hand holding the phone went limp. His friends were staring at him with concern and he could only imagine what his face looked like.

He could feel Sherlock's steady presence behind him, and he didn't even protest as John asked, "How quickly can you get me there, Greg?" and climbed into the back of the police car.

#

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked him as Greg, lights flashing, steered around a Volkswagen.

John could feel his friend's concern but was too busy feeling overwhelmed to do more than nod. Of course he was all right. His grandfather was dead and his father apparently dying. Why wouldn't he be fine? Especially considering…

He could almost feel the weight of generations of responsibility settling on his shoulders as the car neared the hospital, and wasn't sure how he was going to do this. He was no stranger to duty, but … he hadn't expected this, not for years yet.

"Sherlock, I need to tell you…" His voice trailed off. "Never mind."

How was he supposed to explain this? His phone was buzzing, ringing away in his pocket again. He reached down and stared at the screen for a moment. He sent a single text message, and then turned it off, staring out the window, trying to think, trying to absorb the fact that everything had just changed, and he didn't know how he was going to cope.

He spared a thought to wonder how much Mycroft knew about his family.

He wondered if he knew that, with the death of his grandfather and (oh, god) his father, John Hamish Watson Brandon was the new hereditary Earl of Undershaw.

How on earth was he going to tell Sherlock?

#

Lestrade let them off, barely coming to a halt by the A&E doors before John was running, Sherlock right behind him.

He had never seen John so distraught before, though he supposed that was to be expected … this was obviously devastating news. He wondered how well John knew the Earl. He had barely been able to contain his surprise earlier at learning that John was his emergency contact. It seemed so unlikely. Judging by the other phone call, though, his father had apparently been with him in the car. The driver, maybe?

Considering John's lack of support when he'd come home from Afghanistan, his family was a mystery to Sherlock—did they get along, or didn't they? It couldn't be both, could it, even if he did seem fond of his father? Sherlock didn't entirely understand the dynamics in John's family. He rarely saw them, but talked on the phone with his father fairly regularly. He knew John had been planning to see them this weekend and had been looking forward to it.

John was leaning on the desk at the nurse's station now, shoulders tight and looking tense as a coiled spring. Sherlock watched as he was pointed down the hallway and blinked as, without a backward glance, John disappeared down the hall.

Sherlock wavered … should he follow him? Wasn't it good to lend moral support during situations like these? Or was it better to stand back and give him some space?

While he hesitated, Lestrade hurried in. "Where's John?"

"Down that way. I don't know…"

Lestrade gave him a sharp glance and then walked over to the nurse's station. "My friend John Watson just came in, two minutes ago, looking for his father. Would you tell me where he's gone, please?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I can't give out that kind of information…"

Lestrade held up his badge. "I'm not going to interfere. I just need to know where he is."

"Mr Brandon is in room 214, though I'm afraid it doesn't look good," she said.

Sherlock blinked. Brandon? She meant Watson, surely? But there was no time to ask as he and Lestrade hurried down the same hallway John had dashed down earlier.

They paused outside 214—more a cubby than a room. It was obviously meant to be a temporary stop rather than a room for a long-term stay. John was at the bedside of a man who looked just like he was going to in another thirty years. It was obviously his father.

And judging by the look on John's face, he was dying. Sherlock could imagine nothing less that would have put that look of abandonment on the face of his ex-war zone army doctor friend. John had seen countless people die and was the epitome of stoicism at crime scenes or when providing aid to the most horrific injuries.

Nothing but losing a beloved parent could make his face look like _that_.

Sherlock blinked, unsure what to do. He glanced at Lestrade who seemed reluctant to enter the room and break whatever communion was occurring between John and the unconscious man in the bed.

After a few moments, though, John looked up, face calm again but with wounded eyes. "It's not the way I would have wanted you to meet, but … come in." His eyes were back on the man's face as he spoke, as if he couldn't bear to look away. His voice was thick as he said, "Father, this is my flatmate and best friend, Sherlock Holmes, and my good friend Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Sherlock, Greg—this is my father, Jonathan Brandon." He paused to swallow. "Earl of Undershaw."

"Earl of…?"

John just nodded, eyes bright. "Yes. He inherited the title when my grandfather died in the car crash … an hour ago, or whenever that was. He won't hold the title for long, but for now, it's his."

He watched his father's still face for a long moment.

"And probably before morning, the title will be mine."

#


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "The Earl of Undershaw was your grandfather."

John nodded. "He was, yes. My father is his eldest son, which means that since it's a hereditary title, it became his when Grandfather died. And I'm next in line—and from the looks of it, I'll be taking the title very, very soon."

He seemed unnaturally calm, Sherlock thought, and wondered if John was in shock or if it was just him … how was this possible? He was almost grateful when Lestrade said, "But they said his name was Brandon."

Another nod. "I changed to my mother's maiden name when I went off to Uni and kept it when I joined the army—I didn't want special treatment because of my family, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm next in line. I just … I didn't expect this to come up for years yet."

"Jesus, John … you're an _Earl_?" Greg was obviously having trouble absorbing this information. (Not like Sherlock, nope. He was doing just fine.)

"Not quite yet," John said in a sad voice.

Before Sherlock could summon the words to say something, there were footsteps in the hall, and a doctor came in, face weary. "John Brandon? I'm Dr O'Brien."

"John Watson Brandon, yes," he said, looking equally weary as he turned toward the man in crumpled scrubs. Sherlock watched John's eyes skim over the other doctor with an insider's knowledge—knowing exactly what this man was feeling and thinking as he came to pass on the bad news. It was a measure of the kind of man John was that, even the midst of his own tragedy, he did what he could to ease the other man. "You don't have to say anything," he told him. "I saw the chart."

"I … you … yes, I'm very sorry, but…"

John cut him off, saying quietly, "He's unlikely to wake up because of the intracranial bleeding, and considering the location of the worst damage, would suffer from debilitating brain damage even if he were to survive. That, in addition to the damage to his liver and spleen, is just more than a 65-year old man is likely to withstand, no matter how strong his constitution. I _know_. I'm a doctor and served in the army for fifteen years. You don't have to say anything else._ I saw the chart_."

Taking the smallest step back at John's intensity, the other doctor cleared his throat. "Er, right. We do have some forms we need you to sign…"

John had just nodded when there was a flurry of steps in the hall and a woman about John's age burst in. "Oh, God. Daddy," she said, and then burst into tears.

Sherlock watched as John reached over and pulled her into a hug. That must be Harry, then, he thought, as he backed out of the room. All that messy sentiment and tears. He hated it, and he usually tried to avoid it, but this was different, wasn't it? This was John. Not that John was the one crying, but as his friend, wasn't Sherlock supposed to … do something? Not that he was sure what. An image of him patting John's back and saying "There, there" occurred and he almost violently shook his head to dispel it. How was that going to help anything?

He felt Lestrade's hand on his arm and let himself be pulled away from the door. "We should give them a few minutes. Maybe get some tea?"

What a brilliant idea. "John likes tea," Sherlock said, immediately casting about to find the best place to get drinkable tea, because he knew from experience how dreadful the beverage so labelled in the cafeteria was, and John deserved better, especially if his father was dying.

He pulled his phone out and sent a quick text. "—_Getting tea. Back soon,_" and then followed Lestrade down the hall.

#

John watched Sherlock back from the room and for just a moment, thought, "Lucky sod" because his flatmate was able to escape Harry's emotional clutches, and then he remembered exactly why he was here and knew there was no place else he wanted to be. Not if this situation was happening. Not if his father was dying.

He let the other doctor (O'Brien, he'd said) explain what was going on to Harry and turned back to his father. He had seen death more times than he could remember and knew the signs. As little as he liked to admit it, his father was dying.

Judging by the head wound, he wasn't going to wake up to say goodbye, either.

Unexpectedly, John felt at a loss. Familiar as bedside vigils were, this was uncharted territory.

He gave a thought to his grandfather, already gone, just shy of his 90th birthday. He wondered what his injuries had been, hoped it had been painless.

He remembered what it had felt, to lose his mother twenty years ago, just as he'd turned 18. That had been the result of a long illness, though. There was really no comparison, but at least they had had a chance to say goodbye.

He wondered at that need in himself. He knew better than most how rare a touching deathbed farewell could be—but then, most of the deaths he had presided over had been violent and bloody. Except for his medical training (and his mother), very few deaths he had seen had been anything like serene or peaceful—the kind of passing he would have picked for both his father and his grandfather.

Instead, they had been torn away like countless soldiers and crime victims he had seen, and John could only rail at the unfairness of it.

He felt Harry behind him and reached out a hand. They might not get along, but she was his sister, and this was their father. Oddly, at this moment, there was nobody else he wanted with him. Not even Sherlock.

If he couldn't have his father, that is.

#

Instead of heading toward the cafeteria, Sherlock swung out of the hospital and strode down the street, looking for somewhere to get a decent cup of tea.

He barely registered that Lestrade was behind him, he was still so stunned at John's news. His grandfather had been an Earl? The title had passed to his father and was about to pass to John?

How was this possible?

John Watson, a peer of the realm?

The idea was ludicrous. Sherlock was well aware of all of John's sterling, even noble, attributes, but the idea of him as an actual nobleman? He tried to picture it, but the thought of John in his cosy jumpers and with his easy manner … it just did not compute. And the accent? How was it possible that his voice was untouched by the upper-class tones he himself had absorbed at school? For that matter, how had John avoided going to the same schools that he and Mycroft had been sent to?

How the hell had … what, Viscount (?) John Watson Brandon (_Brandon?_) … managed to avoid being trapped in the upper stratosphere of stultifying society?

Ah, a Starbucks. That would do. He turned inside and only when he let the door go to a muffled "Oi!" did he remember that Lestrade had followed him.

He rounded on the man. "Did you know?"

"About John's grandfather? God, no."

Sherlock could see the bewilderment on the man's face and nodded (wondering if his face looked much the same). "Nor did I."

He placed his order at the counter, and pulled out his phone, sending a lightning text to his brother. "—_Did you know about his grandfather?_"

The response was swift. Sherlock answered his phone on the first ring to hear Mycroft ask, "John's grandfather?"

"Yes. The fact that he was an _Earl_ and that John is going to be one himself any minute now because his father is dying. Did you know?"

There was a gratifying silence from the other end of the line. "An Earl?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, feeling just slightly better because this was something he'd known before Mycroft. "And he and John's father were in an accident. The father is at St Marys now."

"I had heard about the traffic accident," Mycroft's voice was matter-of-fact, as if this were unimportant information. "But hadn't realized the family connection. His father's prognosis is that bad?"

Sherlock threw down some money as he turned away, still on the phone, letting Lestrade deal with the cups. "Bad enough for John to finally tell me the news of his incipient inheritance. You're saying you didn't know?"

A sigh drifted down the phone. "No, but I can assure you, I will find out how my people missed that. How is John?"

The question was almost perfunctory and it was all Sherlock could do not to snarl at the man. "How do you think he is?" he bit out before disconnecting.

He turned to Lestrade who had procured a cardboard tray for the drinks and was carrying to them to the condiment station. "How does John take his tea? No, never mind. Situations like these, hot and sweet is the rule."

He'd begged double cups from the girl behind the counter, too, Sherlock noticed. With any luck, the tea would still be hot when they got back to the hospital. They were on their way quickly and walked in silence for a few minutes, then Lestrade said, "Big Brother didn't know, either?"

"Apparently John is better at keeping secrets than I suspected," Sherlock replied.

"I'd say so," Lestrade said with a sigh. "Was he close to them?"

"He spoke to his father on the phone one or two times a month, but didn't see either of them often." Sherlock tried to concentrate on the steps he was taking, bringing him closer to John, but none of this felt real, all of a sudden. He almost felt like he had lost someone himself, but that was just ridiculous. "They were supposed to have dinner this weekend."

Somehow, his feet had stopped moving, and he felt Lestrade's hand guiding him out of the centre of the pavement. "It's okay that this is a shock, you know. I know I'm shocked! I can't reconcile the John Watson I know with being a member of an Earl's family, forget about one himself. It's normal for that to be hard to absorb."

"How did he hide it from me?" Sherlock asked, feeling bereft. "And, why?"

"Probably afraid people would treat him different," Lestrade said.

"Yes, obviously," snapped Sherlock. "But why wouldn't he tell _me_?"

The older man just looked at him a moment, eyes unusually warm, "I'm not saying it's not a good question, Sherlock, but it's one to save for another time, yeah? Let John get through this first."

Sherlock pulled himself upright. "Of course. I'm not a total idiot, Lestrade. Come on, the tea's getting cold."

#

Some kind soul had found him a chair, and John was seated by his father, Harry opposite, when Sherlock and Lestrade came back and handed around drinks.

"Ta," John said absently, glancing away from his father's too-still face. "I'm sorry … you both must have other things to do…"

Greg just shook his head. "Don't be silly, John."

John tried to smile, but it barely made it to his lips. "It's not like I'm going anywhere. This is my sister Harry, by the way. Harry, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and my best friend and flatmate, Sherlock Holmes."

They all exchanged awkward nods, nobody commenting on Harry's red eyes—or the fact that they'd likely been bloodshot before she'd arrived. The alcohol on her breath had been obvious when she entered the room. John briefly met Sherlock's eyes as his friend lingered uncomfortably at the back of the room and then turned back to watch his father.

"How is he?" Greg asked.

"It's just a matter of time," said John.

"Is there anybody you need to call? Anything I could get you?"

John wasn't ready to even think about the responsibilities that were waiting for him when he left this room. An Earldom was largely meaningless these days. Other than the title—not that he had ever been interested in using a title—it wasn't like there were a lot of duties he would have to perform, but there _would_ be a lot of business. A hereditary earldom (his, anyway) came with lands and money and while he wouldn't be responsible for anybody's lives in quite the way he would have been generations ago, he had just basically inherited a large family business that would need to be maintained.

The problem, of course, was that the idea of sitting and going over books and bank statements had never been the kind of thing he enjoyed. He had been taught some basics, but medicine had always been his calling … and he had thought he'd have years before any of this became his responsibility. His burden.

Which, yes, when he thought of it, was foolish. His grandfather had been 89, his father in his mid-60s, and John was within spitting distance of 40. He knew far too well how short and mortal lives were, how suddenly things could change. He should have been prepared.

He had thought he would be, though. He had known the army was something he couldn't do forever, and had figured he would practice medicine after that, until such a time as his family obligations came due. And even then, it would have been simple enough to slot a medical practice around his responsibilities. There would be necessary meetings with business managers, or what-have-you, but that would have been simple enough to schedule. It wasn't like he was going to try for a seat in Parliament, or anything.

What he had never expected, though, was the whirlwind excitement of Sherlock Holmes blowing through his life. (Or, well, the bullet that had ended his career, either. Two life-changing surprises, but at least one of them had been welcome.) Instead of adapting to a normal, post-army life and starting to pick up some of his family obligations, he had been pulled into orbit around this amazing, brilliant, altogether unique man. Forget about trying to schedule anything like a regular meal, much less time with lawyers or men of business. His life had become utterly chaotic, without any structure—just massive amounts of adrenalin, frustration, and sheer joy at finding a life that compared to what he had had in the army.

John had tried to promise himself that he would only indulge in this lifestyle for a few years. That at a certain point he would pull back, at least a little, to start preparing himself for the duties he would need to take over someday. Because, again, after the next few weeks as he dealt with the inheritance nightmare (which he fully expected to be something resembling hell, if a lot quieter and less bloody than his last experience), it wasn't like he would need to spend _that_ much time playing Earl, would he?

Except, suddenly, with his father disappearing in front of his eyes, it didn't seem like something he could play at anymore.

Blinking, he looked up to find Harry's eyes boring into him. "I guess your playtime's over, huh, big brother?"

Damn it. She was as bad as Sherlock, he thought. Was he really that transparent?

Instead of answering, he glanced around to find the room empty except for the two of them and their silent, unmoving father.

"I haven't exactly been playing, Harry. I got shot, remember?"

"Because you were _playing_ soldier instead of meeting your responsibilities here."

He felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. "What are you talking about? I was saving lives, _and_ I was doing it with the blessings of both father and Himself. At least I was doing something useful with _my_ time."

She snorted. "Oh, you wrapped it up in very noble sounding excuses—saving lives, serving Queen and Country, blah blah blah. But that doesn't change the fact that you weren't _here_."

John felt his ire rising. "At least I wasn't getting drunk rather than facing that my playgirl life was meaningless."

"Really? You're going to throw that at me?" Harry was on her feet now. "Saint John, come again? Passing judgement from his throne? It's what you've always wanted, isn't it?"

John stared up at his sister and instead of getting angrier, felt his own rage drain away. "Harry, I'm not going to do this with you. Not right now. Not in front of Father."

"Taking advantage of your last chance to hide behind him? I should have known." Her voice was bitter, and getting louder. John didn't know how to calm her down, how to get her to just … stop. Because honestly, this was the last thing he needed right now.

It didn't matter how much he told himself that she was hurting too, though. All he could think of was that their father was dying and she was acting like the same, spoiled brat she had always been.

But then, that was Harry all over. If she couldn't be the centre of attention (heaven forbid their father should be for his deathbed), she would pitch a fit until she was … and if she could bring her brother down with her? Even better.

John had occasionally wondered if their relationship would have been better if she had not been so jealous. It wasn't his fault that he was next in line for the title. It's not like he had ever desired the spotlight. (Heaven knows that would have made his friendship with Sherlock impossible.) But he wondered if they would have gotten on better if Harry could have inherited instead of him.

In truly scary moments of sibling rivalry, he had wondered how terrible things would have been if she had been the eldest but still unable to inherit because she was female—talk about envy. The bitterness she felt toward him now for being eldest and heir would have been but a shadow.

"Harry," was all he said, "Not now."

He could tell it wouldn't make a difference, though, because Harry was just taking a breath to continue her scold when Sherlock spoke from the doorway. "No, I don't think so. Even I know enough to show some respect for the dying. Is this really the time to address your personal insecurities and lifelong envy of your brother? And was it really worth it? The years of bitterness and regret at not being able to inherit the title he wasn't interested in? All to have it come down to this—a dim hospital room where your father's life is ebbing away while you squabble? Is this really the way you want to remember his final moments?"

With his peripheral vision, John could see Harry standing speechless with her mouth open while his own head felt top-heavy with weariness. "Are you going to let him talk to me that way? Your own sister?"

"If he's going to make that much sense, then yes," John told her as he rubbed a hand over his face. "Because he's right, Harry. I'm not going to fight with you at our father's deathbed."

"It seems like the perfect time to me—before you've been crowned with your coronet so that you can lord it over me officially for the rest of our lives."

He just sighed. "They don't do that anymore, Harry, and believe me, I've no intention of lording it over anyone. Right this minute, I just want to concentrate on our father, okay? With maybe a spare thought for our dead grandfather from time to time?"

He felt rather than heard Sherlock step into the room, coming to a halt at John's back. "I think that's best, John."

Harry sneered. "Like that, is it? No wonder my perfect brother never married—and spent so much time in the army."

That did it. John quietly rose to his feet, walked around the bed to take her elbow and forcibly usher her out of the room. Once in the hallway, he rounded on her. "I don't know what you're implying, but Sherlock and I are just flatmates and friends. That's all. And do I really need to remind you about Mary?"

That silenced her. She'd forgotten about his wife, dead these fifteen years now. Not discussing Mary was one of the only requests of his she had ever honoured.

"Now, are you going to be respectful, or not? Because as a doctor and a son, I will tell you that this is _not_ the place for your nonsense, and if you're going to make this any harder than it needs to be for Father or for me, I'll have you removed. I mean it, Harry."

Her eyes were bitter and for a moment he thought she would refuse, but then she nodded, shoulders falling just a bit. He gave a firm nod and then turned and went back into the room. A moment later, she followed.

#

After John marched Harry out of the room, Sherlock approached the bed. The dying man really did look uncannily like John. This could be John's deathbed if he lived another thirty years and managed to die quietly in a bed, and odd though it was to think of John's dying being anything other than horrific, somehow the sense of continuity was a comfort.

"I just wanted to tell you that … you have a remarkable son, Mr Brandon," he finally said to the still form on the pillows. "He is the best man I know, and the bravest. He doesn't talk about you often, but he always smiles when he ends a phone call with you—which is more than I could say about any of the conversations I ever had with my own father. I just … I want you to know that he is my best friend, and I'll do whatever I can to help take care of him—even if it turns out not to be much. He mostly takes care of me, you see. It's his nature, I think—he takes his responsibilities seriously and doesn't let anything get in the way of what he knows is right, or what should be done. It's really quite annoying sometimes, and yet … it's one of the things I admire most about him. I said it the first day I met him—a strong moral compass. He'll do what he needs to do, you don't need to worry."

There was a sound from the door and Sherlock leapt back, as if ashamed to be caught talking to an unconscious man, but he just shrugged at the curious look John gave him. (Me? Doing something suspicious? I've no idea what you're talking about.)

He hid a smirk at Harry's chastened attitude when she slunk in behind him. He had resisted the temptation to listen, but was sure John's dressing-down had been as effective as always.

He still wasn't sure what was required of him, and Lestrade wasn't there to ask. Was he meant to stay? He didn't know John's father at all, but he did know John. Maybe he should stay in the waiting area, but leave the room itself for John and his sister? Or maybe John wouldn't want him here at all.

But no, John was giving him that look that meant thank you as he came to stand next to him instead of returning to his chair.

"How is he?" Sherlock asked. "Other than the obvious, I mean."

John's eyes skimmed over the readings on the machines. "Not good. I'll be surprised if he makes it to morning."

There was a hitch to his voice on the word and Sherlock just looked at him blankly, wanting to say or do something to help, but not knowing what. He had been to countless crime scenes, seen scores of grieving family members, but this was different. This time it was John.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," John said with the merest hint of a smile, but one that did not reach his eyes. "Or at least, I can't imagine how."

"You could always double check with Mycroft to be sure," Sherlock said.

"And wouldn't he love that," John said, a touch of warmth in his eyes now. "I can just imagine how that conversation would go. He'd probably have me arrested for false accusations."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not now you're a peer of the realm. He has far too much respect for titles, if not the men who hold them."

"That doesn't really help," John said, his voice cracking again. "Though honestly, my father and my grandfather are two of the finest men I've known. Mycroft would probably have respected them … now he's stuck with me, of course."

"Oh, believe me, John. He respects you. He has ever since that first night he kidnapped you. Anyone who can stand up to him like that without losing their temper automatically gains a certain amount of respect."

"Without losing their temper? That leaves you out, then?"

"Well, of course. You didn't think my brother respects _me_, do you?"

John gave a half-shrug. "Well, he should. And thank you for talking to Harry."

"Oh, any time, John. That was a pleasure. Lestrade had to leave, by the way, but he said to let him know if there was anything he could do," Sherlock said. John gave a sad little nod and moved back toward the bed.

He hadn't given Sherlock any instructions, but somehow now, Sherlock didn't feel as uncomfortable being in the room with the Watson/Brandon family. In some strange way, he almost felt included.

#

It was at 3.47 a.m. that Jonathan Brandon breathed his last.

John Watson Brandon was now the Earl of Undershaw.

#


	3. Chapter 3

John thought he would feel different. He had known this moment was coming his entire life, but now that it was here, all he felt was numb.

Harry was sobbing on the other side of the bed, but all John could do was stare at his father and marvel once again at how one can be alive in one second, dead in the next … and how such a simple thing can change everything. Breathing was not the least bit boring. It was necessary and it was totally, completely wrong that his father was no longer doing so.

He sat quietly, holding his father's hand, forcing the hospital staff to work around him as they took notes, made pronouncements, and generally did everything they could to make it irrevocably official that his father was no longer alive.

For his part, he just tried not to think of anything at all.

Not that he was succeeding. During this entire vigil, his mind had been racing, going over the things he knew he would have to do. Calls he needed to make. People he needed to see. Arrangements to make. The thought that one bad driver on a slick road had more or less instantaneously made John head of his entire, extended family was still too much to wrap his mind around.

After a time, he looked across at Harry, who looked as numb as he felt but at a complete loss. He spared a thought to be almost grateful that he and Death were such long-standing foes. At least some of this experience almost familiar.

Finally, he took a breath and rose to his feet. Or tried to, as his knees went out from under him, stiff from the hours of sitting as well as wobbly from the world-shift that had taken place. He grabbed at the back of the chair as Sherlock was suddenly there, supporting his elbow. "Thanks," he said. "There are … I need … I have some calls I need to make."

"You can eat first," Sherlock told him. His eyes flicked in Harry's direction. "Both of you. It's going to be a full day and you need to eat."

John felt a distant flutter of amusement, somewhere under the layers of muffling numbness. "This is a switch, you telling me to eat."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched, though his eyes were solemn, deep with concern. "No-one will ever believe it."

"I'm not even sure if I do," John said, running a hand over his face. "You're right, though. Anything I need to do can wait until I eat. Though I should call David … the minute his wife Anna knows, it will spread to everyone in the family."

"It would be rude to call before 6:00," Sherlock told him firmly, giving him a slight nudge toward the door and then looking back to Harry. "Come on."

John glanced back to see her sniffle and then square her shoulders and, to his relief, step forward to join them. They didn't get on, but just now, it didn't feel right to be apart.

He stopped at the desk to make sure the hospital had his number. He had already signed the papers they needed him to sign and had formally identified his grandfather while Sherlock was out getting tea. There was nothing left for him here. He said he would have someone claim the bodi… _them_ … and then he was shrugging on his coat and, heaving a deep breath, John Watson marched out into the early dawn, Sherlock and Harry at his heels.

#

Sherlock watched his friend pull his coat on and straighten his shoulders. It was more than his usual military posture, he thought. John's entire bearing was different.

It wasn't just fatigue, he thought. If anything, that would have made him look more … bowed. Anyway, he had seen John forcing himself upright despite his exhaustion and it had looked nothing like this. No, he thought as he watched John walk out to the pavement, that was determination. John was facing the new day, the new challenges like the soldier he was—shouldering his new responsibilities like a new coat.

He felt a brief surge of wonder as his friend amazed him yet again. From what he knew about John Watson, he didn't shirk his responsibilities—even the ones he didn't particularly want.

Of course, he didn't know John _Brandon_ at all.

Sherlock had no idea why John had changed his name all those years ago. Had it been a legal change? Where had Watson come from? If he was now the earl, would he have to change it back? What exactly did Earls _do_ in this day and age? It was something he had seldom given any thought to … and why would he, really? But now? He found he was vitally interested in exactly what was required of, say, the Earl of Undershaw. And how time-consuming it might be.

Whether his duties would require him to live somewhere … specific.

He trailed along behind his friend as John strode off into his future and suddenly wondered if there would still be room for him.

Because Sherlock was a genius, of course. He might not be the most adept at social interactions or family responsibilities, but he considered himself something of an expert in John Watson. If he felt needed, he would do whatever it took to help, no matter the personal cost. Sherlock was well aware that he took advantage of this—dragging his friend hither and yon for cases, or just because it was fun. (The look on John's face alone made the more frivolous requests so worthwhile—like removing his mobile from the jacket he was wearing.)

He knew—though he still didn't understand exactly why—that John Watson enjoyed their life of cases and puzzles as much as he did.

He just didn't know how John Brandon, Earl of Undershaw was going to feel about it.

On the pavement, he stopped behind John who was looking around as if lost. "Where's Greg?"

"He left a couple hours ago," Sherlock told him, trying not to sound pleased that he had outlasted the man in something that came down to Sentiment in supporting a friend. "Something about work, but he said to keep him informed and that he would come by later to see how you were doing."

"Right," John said, fumbling at his coat for his phone.

Sherlock put his hand on John's arm. "After breakfast. The question is, do we find someplace around here? Or go back to Baker Street?"

John blinked at him, obviously not thinking as quickly as usual, then looked at Harry. "Which would you rather?"

"Me?" She sounded surprised.

John reached out to put his arm around her. "Of course, you. You're my sister. You're coming, too."

Sherlock watched as Harry seemed to sag gratefully into his embrace, and then he met John's eyes. "Baker Street?"

John nodded wearily and before long, they were in a cab and Sherlock pulled out his phone. "I thought we weren't calling anyone yet?" John said wryly.

"A heads up for Mrs Hudson, don't you think?"

"Sherlock, you're not going to ask the poor woman to cook for us…?"

Sherlock waved his hand at him as the call was answered. "Mrs Hudson? I'm sorry to wake you so early, but thought you should know John's father just died. Yes, a car accident, very tragic. We're actually on our way back from the hospital now … oh, you don't have to … well, if you insist, it's very kind of you. John's sister is with us, too."

He met John's eyes. "There, see? All taken care of and I didn't need to ask at all."

He was gratified to see a spark of humour in John's tired face. "You're incorrigible. But if you can make a call, so can … hey!"

Sherlock waved John's phone in his face. "Not until you've eaten."

This time, though, John's jaw was tight. "Sherlock. Give me my phone back. I just need to send Greg a text."

Ah, so he'd crossed a line of some kind, thought Sherlock, immediately surrendering the phone. It was hard to know where that was. He suspected the line moved when he wasn't looking.

He watched as John punched in a text message to Lestrade and considered that was probably considered necessary since the man had been at the hospital with them earlier. He would want to know as soon as possible, and John wouldn't want him to worry any longer than he had to. Stupid. Sherlock should have thought of that—John's consideration for others was one of his primary character traits. It made sense, then, that Sherlock's argument _not_ to make phone calls had been successful not because John needed to eat first, but because he had stressed the rudeness of calling too early.

Text sent, John gave a sigh and pocketed his phone. Sherlock caught Harry watching, a look of surprise on her face. "You still have my old phone."

"What? Yes, of course I do," John said. "It's a perfectly good phone, and since I miraculously haven't broken it or been blown up with it in my pocket … why wouldn't I?"

"I'm just … surprised. I wouldn't think you'd want the reminder."

"Reminder of … your divorce?"

"Of me," she said, voice small.

"Oh, Harry," John said, reaching across the seat to take her hand. "I never mind being reminded of you."

"When I'm not being a bitch, at least," she said, sniffling.

"That does help," he said, squeezing her hand while Sherlock tried not to look dumbfounded. Was this still the Our-Father-Just-Died truce in effect? Or was it possible that John was actually fond of his sister? He had always just assumed that John and Harry got along as well as he and Mycroft (which was to say not at all), and that caring wasn't an issue. Perhaps caring and liking were two separate issues?

They pulled up in front of 221 then, and were met by Mrs Hudson at the door. "Oh, John, I am so sorry," she said, pulling him in for a hug. John leaned in to it for a moment before pulling away. "Mrs Hudson, this is my sister Harry. Harry, this is the best and kindest landlady in London, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh, pooh," she scoffed while embracing Harry, too, who looked like she didn't know what to do with such a motherly welcome. "You must both be exhausted. Come inside. I've got breakfast started."

#

John sipped at his tea, trying to figure out what he needed to do next. He and Harry had talked throughout breakfast, discussing funeral arrangements, things that they thought their father (and grandfather) would have wanted, hymns they liked, and so on. Calling the mortician was right at the top of John's list, right after calling his cousin David.

For such an old family, there were remarkably few relatives to worry about. His grandfather had been the last of his generation, John's father and his uncle were both dead, and there were only the two first cousins—David and his sister. There were some more distant cousins, but none that he was close enough to that he needed to contact them directly.

Otherwise, there were funeral arrangements to make, and he would need to contact the lawyer. And Jenkins, of course, the man in charge of all the business affairs. He wondered if his grandfather's staff at the house knew?

John had no doubt in his mind that the next week or two (or four) were going to be overwhelming. He just hoped that once things calmed down, once he'd done all the immediate, urgent, necessary things, he'd be able to go back to something resembling his current life. He almost looked forward to the first murder that would happen once he got to the far side of all this.

Right now, though … "Okay, it's 6:30. I'm going to go grab a shower and then start making phone calls. Mrs Hudson, thank you so much for breakfast. Harry—you're more than welcome to stay, you know, if you don't want to be alone in your flat?" (The 'alone _to get drunk_ in your flat' he left unspoken.)

"Really, Johnny? I think I'd like that for a while, though I should really get some clean clothes…"

John looked at her, noting the signs of strain in her forehead and around her mouth. She had a splitting headache, he could tell just looking at her. "I'll lend you some pyjamas and you can kip here for a while, get some sleep. It's still too early to worry about what you're wearing, anyway."

He took her hand and led her up to his bedroom and started rummaging in the drawers, pulling out a change for himself and then handing her a pair of neatly folded pyjamas. "Here. And these." He handed her some paracetamol and poured some water from the carafe by the bed. "Drink the whole glass. Hopefully your headache will be better when you wake up."

He was completely surprised when she flung her arms around him in the most spontaneous hug he'd had from her since she told him about her divorce. Before that, it had probably been Mary's funeral, though he tried not to think about that.

"I wish we got along better, Johnny," she mumbled into his shirt. "You're really just too annoyingly good."

John snorted, thinking of all the things he'd done that couldn't remotely be considered "good." "Not hardly, but I do at least try. Get some sleep."

"How about you? You've been up all night, too."

"I'm used to it," he told her, giving her a nudge toward the bed. "I'll grab a nap later when I've gotten things done."

Taking his pile of clothes, he headed back downstairs, thinking longingly of a shower.

"John?"

He detoured into the sitting room to find Sherlock watching the news. "Oh no," he said.

"Yes. Apparently losing an earl _and_ his heir in one car crash makes for a juicy headline on a slow news day."

"Christ, I've got to call David right now," John said, dropping his clothes on his chair as he rummaged in his coat pockets for his phone then headed for the hallway.

"David? It's your cousin John. I'm sorry to call so early, but … I've got some bad news…"

#

John really was a wonder, thought Sherlock. He was exhausted from his night-long vigil, drained by the emotional turmoil of loss—as well as dealing with his sister—and still, his first thought was of his cousin. How was that even possible?

Mrs Hudson had wandered out of the kitchen while John was on the phone. "Isn't that just terrible," she said. "And on the same night as John's father, too. It must have been a bad night for accidents."

"That _was_ his father," Sherlock told her, turning his head to catch her reaction.

"Sherlock! That's not funny, young man. You should know better than to joke about things like that—that's real loss, there. You might at least think of John's feelings."

"No, he's telling the truth, Mrs Hudson," John called over, hand over the mouthpiece on his phone. "That's my father and grandfather."

"Technically, his father died in hospital this morning from injuries sustained in the crash," Sherlock said with painstaking accuracy, "But yes."

"But the name on the telly was Brandon," she said, looking flabbergasted.

John re-entered the room, having ended his call abruptly. "My full name is John Hamish Watson Brandon, Mrs Hudson."

"But … but … that means …" The flummoxed look on her face was almost entertaining. "An _Earl_?"

Sherlock almost smiled to see affection and amusement grace John's face for the first time since they'd finished dinner at Angelo's last night. "I can get my birth certificate out if you don't believe me."

Now Mrs Hudson looked embarrassed. "Of course I believe you, John. It's just hard to get my old head around this."

Sherlock sniffed. "Sure, she believes _you_."

"Everybody knows I'm the trustworthy one, Sherlock. You're the sociopath, remember? Nobody believes a sociopath over someone with a face like mine."

Now Sherlock did smile, relieved to hear John bantering, momentarily distracted from his grief. Already, though, his head was turning back to the television. "I think I'd better make some of those other phone calls before my shower."

"Nonsense," said Mrs Hudson. "It will take you ten minutes and you'll feel the better for it. Any calls you need to make can wait at least ten minutes."

Sherlock watched the lines in John's forehead relax just a touch before he came over and gave her a kiss on the forehead. "You're right. I'm going."

He scooped his clothes up off the chair and disappeared down the hall while Sherlock and Mrs Hudson both turned back toward the newscast. "Did you know, Sherlock?"

"Not before last night, no. I didn't even deduce it," he said, unexpectedly bitter at the thought.

They stood in silence a moment and then she asked, "Does this mean he's going to move out?"

"I don't know."

She nodded, but neither of them said anything else, just watched the news, until John came back in the room. "You two look even sadder than I am."

Mrs Hudson just turned and gave him a hug while he looked past her head at Sherlock, eyes wide. "What happened?"

"Mrs Hudson is afraid you're going to move out and has decided to be proactive and start missing you now," Sherlock said, trying not to show that he was worrying about the same thing.

"What? No, I'm not going to move out," John said. "Why would I … that's the last thing I want."

She sniffled and pulled herself away, eyes moist. "But … an earl, John? Surely, that means you'll inherit at least one house of your own? One much nicer than this, I would think."

John's head tilted, as if he were counting. "Four houses, I think, two of them quite grand, but not _nicer_. Believe me, Mrs Hudson, this is home. The only thing I'd change would be the body parts in the fridge."

She smiled warmly at him and almost giggled. "Maybe you can use the possibility of those other homes to convince him to keep them elsewhere."

"Or start paying you for 221C and let him turn that into his lab."

Sherlock couldn't help the fond look on his face as he said, "You two do remember that I'm standing right here, don't you?"

"Did you hear something, Mrs Hudson?" John asked, voice teasing.

"Not a thing, except that those dishes are calling me," she said as, with a final pat to his arm, she returned to the kitchen.

Sherlock studied his friend, noting the pale skin, the bags under his eyes. Clear signs of the night's toll. His eyes, though, had a spark that they hadn't had earlier. "Is there anything I can do?" he finally asked, and then tried not to feel insulted when John looked surprised. "What? I may not usually bother, but that doesn't mean I am incapable of being helpful."

John smiled at him—not a large smile, but still one that touched the eyes. "Of course you can. I must just still be in shock. I just … I don't know. I need to call the lawyer, who will probably have about nine thousand things I need to read and sign. I need to arrange the funerals—need to find out who did my mother's, I suppose. I can't honestly remember if there's some kind of family tradition for this." For a moment, he looked overwhelmed, but he just drew a deep breath and then continued. "Then there's the business stuff—details about properties and lands and … I don't even know. I think I'm going to be drowning in paperwork, Sherlock."

"I thought you liked paperwork?"

A tiny huff of a laugh. "No, I just don't hate it as much as you do. That is decidedly not the same thing as liking it. I mean, don't get me wrong—I was a doctor in the _army_. I know all about meaningless paperwork, but that wasn't exactly why I went into medicine."

"No, I suppose not." Sherlock looked longingly at his violin, but then remembered Harry sleeping upstairs and forced himself to look away. "So, what can I do?"

"Any chance you can find out about the ancestral undertakers while I call the ancestral lawyer?"

Sherlock tried for a smile, but felt it shrivel before it reached his lips. "Were you going to tell me?" he blurted out, and then hated himself for bringing it up now.

The lost look was back in John's eyes, but he nodded. "When you met my father, if not before," he said. "I thought … I expected more _time_, Sherlock. I was never going to inherit this early, with so little warning. It wasn't supposed to happen this way."

Sherlock tried to think of something to say that wouldn't be condescending ("That's life, John") or heartless ("It's not like you didn't know they would die") or selfish ("But why didn't you trust me?"). Nothing occurred to him, though, and knowing how poor he was at sympathetic statements, he just held his tongue, figuring that was the kindest thing he could do.

"I didn't mean it to be a secret, you know," John finally said quietly. "I mean, I know I didn't tell you, obviously, but it wasn't a deliberate thing. I honestly go days, weeks at a time without thinking about it—have done ever since Uni. I've tried so hard to make a life of my own, without using the family name or connections, I sometimes truly forget that I'm not just John Watson. I didn't mean to, to exclude you, or…"

"You're not."

"Sorry … what?"

"_Just_ John Watson," Sherlock said. "I've only known you a few months, but you're the best man I know. Learning that you are noble by blood as well as spirit isn't really that much of a surprise, John. You did take on Moriarty for me, after all."

He told himself that he was not insulted by the flabbergasted look on John's face as he reached for his phone and pulled up the browser. "Go make your phone calls. I'll look into funeral arrangements. It shouldn't surprise you to learn that I have some connections in that field."

He gave his flatmate another smile and then turned to his task.

#


	4. Chapter 4

John was almost amused that the solicitor had insisted on coming to him, rather than meeting at his office. (If anything was going to confirm his change in status, it was that—a lawyer coming to _him_.) And then he was definitely amused at the man's reaction to 221B. Sherlock's decorating style wasn't to everyone's taste, after all. "Maybe we should have met at your office, after all?" he'd asked politely.

"Oh, no, my lord. That's not at all necessary. It's my pleasure … is … is that a human skull?"

John tried not to wince and gestured the man to a chair. "Don't let it worry you. My flatmate solves murders for a living and I'm an ex-army doctor. We tend to have different sensibilities than normal people. Can I get you some tea?"

If anything, that just made the man look more uncomfortable. "Oh, no, thank you, my lord."

It was going to be a long day, thought John with a mental sigh. He was just grateful that Sherlock was out—though he wasn't sure where. Interrogating mortuaries, perhaps. "I'm making some for myself, so it's no trouble, Mr Barrington. And, please, call me John."

The man blinked, and John stifled another sigh. "I couldn't, my lord."

"Couldn't drink the tea, or couldn't call me by my name instead of the title that I still connect to my departed grandfather?" John asked, not above a little emotional coercion. "Believe me, Mr Barrington, this meeting is outside both our comfort zones. The only titles I'm used to using are Doctor and Captain. I haven't adapted to Lord yet. I know we have a lot to get through today, I'm tired, and it would help if we could … avoid that for now. If you can't bring yourself to call me John … can we compromise on Dr Watson for now?"

He saw a glimmer of understanding in the man's eyes. "If it's not too presumptuous, may I ask … why Watson?"

John was already tired of answering this question. "I just dropped the Brandon when I left for university, right after my mother died. After that, it was just easier to carry that into the army. I just didn't want special treatment."

He watched the man mentally regrouping and, with a glance at the skull by the fireplace, nodded. "If you're making some for yourself, I would love some tea, Dr Watson."

Relieved, John produced a small smile. "Good, because I don't think I could get through this without tea."

An hour or so later, Greg came to the door. "John? How are you … oh, I'm sorry. You're busy."

John looked up. "No, please come in. Greg, this is my solicitor, Geoffrey Barrington. Mr Barrington, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Are you looking for Sherlock?"

"No … well, a little. I texted him earlier, but I'm mostly here to see how you're doing. I don't suppose you got any sleep?"

"Too much to do. I'm not sure where Sherlock is at the moment, he went out a couple hours ago."

He saw Greg's lips tighten. "He left … okay. Have you eaten anything?"

John was unexpectedly touched at his concern. "Yes, don't worry. Mrs Hudson made all of us breakfast, and I'll nap later. It's okay, Greg."

Greg was about to say something else, when Sally came up the stairs. "Sir? Did you find the Freak? Because we've got to get going." She gave a short nod to John, barely glancing at the lawyer watching.

"Donovan," Greg said, a warning note in his voice.

"What? He's not even here for me to apologize to," she started to say as Harry came stumbling down the stairs, still in John's pyjamas.

"Oh, God. I didn't realize…"

"Who's this, then, John?" Sally asked with a leer.

John kept his voice calm. "That's my _sister_. Harry, this is Sgt Sally Donovan, who I hope is just leaving. How's your headache?"

"Better," Harry said, barely looking at Sally who was eyeing her curiously. "What's going on?"

"Greg and Donovan came to consult with Sherlock. Mr Barrington is here to start on the funeral arrangements and the mountain of paperwork I need to go through. Do you want some tea?"

"Funeral? What, did the Freak finally snap?" Sally's words rang harshly in the silent room.

John froze. In fact, the entire room froze as everyone stared at Sally in shock. She just blinked in surprise at the reaction until John spoke, very quietly, very calmly … and in the voice that had made the men under his command jump to attention. "Not that it's any of your business, Sgt Donovan, but both my father and my grandfather were killed in a car accident last night. You might perhaps show a little respect?"

"I … I didn't know," she stammered out.

"Of course you didn't," Sherlock's voice came from the doorway, as he breezed in, bags of shopping in his hands. "You're only supposed to be a trained detective—why would you notice the family solicitor sitting at the desk, or the scattered papers which clearly include a Last Will and Testament. Both John and his sister are showing signs of emotional and physical fatigue from their overnight vigil by their father's bedside before he passed on this morning. Not to mention all the signals you chose to completely ignore from your boss as he tried to stop you from putting your foot in it … not that that seems possible, as you've never bothered to restrain your tongue before, why would you want to start now?"

"Thank you, Sherlock," John said, nodding at the shopping bags, but meaning for his friend's defence as well. "Did you actually buy milk?"

"Of course. I assumed you'll be living on tea for at least a week."

"You're right about that," John said, as he turned to introduce Sherlock to his lawyer.

"You'll be his lordship's flatmate, then?" Mr Barrington said.

"Lordship?" Sally burst out.

With a concealed smirk, Sherlock reached into one of his bags, and pulled out a newspaper. "I would think a detective from Scotland Yard would be more in tune with current events, Sally. You really should try to keep up—it might prevent you from embarrassing yourself."

"I saw the paper, Fr… Sherlock, but unlike you, I don't memorize the obituaries."

Sally just never knew when to stop, thought John, and felt no guilt at all as he settled back, ready to enjoy the show. He could barely hide his smirk as Sherlock asked, "Did you somehow miss the front page, as well?"

Sally was staring at the paper, face blank with incomprehension. "I don't understand. This is about the Earl of Undershaw."

"Exactly," said Sherlock with relish.

"What, was the driver John's father, then?"

"You bitch." It was said calmly, but, despite the difference in their accents, Harry's tone of voice was eerily like John's. The tension in the room immediately ratcheted up even higher. "How dare you? Who do you think you are, coming into my brother's home while we're trying to deal with not one, but _two_ deaths? And then you insult him and his friend? Who the _hell_ do you think you are?"

Any semblance of calm disappeared as Harry's voice rose to a shriek. It looked like a catfight was about to break out but John was still reluctant to step in, enjoying seeing Sally Donovan flummoxed and completely off-balance. And really, it was nice watching Harry rip into someone else for a change.

Sally was staring at Harry now, and seemed almost torn. John could almost see the thoughts wheeling through her brain. Should she retaliate against a woman who had just suffered a family tragedy, thus proving her social skills were worse than Sherlock's? Or back off and let Lestrade take care of this … because by the way she was glancing at her boss, she was wondering why he hadn't stepped in yet. "Who am I?" she finally said. "I'm an officer of the law, and while I understand you're grieving, I'll thank you not to speak to me that way."

John snorted. He couldn't help himself. She had no idea how short a fuse Harry had. He caught Sherlock eyeing him as if judging how upset he was, and flashed a small grin to his friend. This was the best entertainment he'd had all day.

"My father and my grandfather just _died_. I'll speak to you any way I damn well please—especially if you disparage my brother one more time. Nobody gets to do that but me."

To John's surprise, the next person to speak was Mr Barrington. "Furthermore, the polite address is Lady, Sergeant. As in Lady Harriet Brandon, sister to the current Earl of Undershaw, Lord John Hamish Watson Brandon. Now, as my clients are in mourning and we have much to discuss, perhaps you could take your frankly appalling attitude outside?"

Sally's face had paled to the colour of milky coffee and she looked as if the floor had tilted, suddenly unable to keep her balance. "Earl?" she whispered, staring at John, who just lifted an eyebrow and gave a slow nod. He could see her mentally running through all their interactions, looking for insults or problems—things a titled, powerful man could use against her if he were so inclined.

Greg actually shook himself and took a weary step forward. "Outside, Donovan. We'll discuss this later." He looked over at the others. "I'm sorry. I should have stopped her…"

"Oh, I don't know," John said, "That was worth watching—I'd back my sister against Sally any day. Thanks, sis."

"Does she do that often?" Harry sounded disgusted—and ready to go chasing down the stairs if necessary.

Sherlock actually did smile now. "I don't think she will again anytime soon. Nicely done, Harry. You're looking much more rested than when last I saw you. Now, Lestrade, does the file in your hand really need my help, or was it just your excuse for coming and checking up on John?"

Greg ran a hand through his hair. "A little of both. I assumed you'd be busy helping John, but if you could spare a minute to look, it would help. And, seriously, John," he said as he handed the file to Sherlock. "I'm sorry. I didn't expect Donovan would … well …"

"Be so much like herself?" John said, sounding weary now, too. "I don't really expect anything else from her these days. And it's not like me being an earl was something _expected_."

"Not if you were going to keep it a secret, no," Greg said. "But really, even without the earl-thing, she should have had the human decency to let up once she learned about your dad. If you want to lodge a formal complaint…."

"Yes," Harry said eagerly.

"No." John shook his head. "I have enough legal headaches right now. I'll give her a chance to learn from this, but if she doesn't … we can take steps then. For now … is this conversation enough for an _informal_ complaint, Greg? Then, good. Do you want tea while Sherlock is studying?"

"I won't be that long," Sherlock said. "It was the sister—you can tell by the way the cuts are tiny jabs. Even furious, she was worried about her manicure and had trouble gripping the knife, but there's a chip of nail polish right there, see?"

"Right," said Greg. "I'm off, then. I have a Sergeant to have words with. Glad to see you're doing okay, John, Harry. Nice to meet you, Mr Barrington." He gave a nod to Sherlock and then was gone.

"Do you know," Harry said, "I actually feel better now? That was almost therapeutic."

John laughed. "My only regret is you restrained yourself from slapping her. She's had one coming for as long as I've known her."

"Ooh, you could call her back," Harry suggested with a laugh, while Sherlock actually smiled and Mr Barrington looked faintly scandalized—but with a twinkle in his eye that showed he wasn't as shocked as he pretended. Really, John thought that went a long way toward making him feel better about the man. They were going to be spending a lot of time together, and a sense of humour would go a long way toward making things easier.

#

Sherlock was on his very best behaviour for the rest of the day. He stayed out of the way while John met with his lawyer. He resisted picking up his violin. He refrained from starting any particularly noxious experiments in the kitchen. He didn't make an issue over Harry installing herself on the couch. In fact, he worked very hard at putting John's needs ahead of his own.

This was more challenging than he'd expected. Not just because he was used to being selfish—he had never really understood why he shouldn't get his own way so long as he wasn't hurting anyone else. He hadn't reached his mid-thirties, though, without occasionally having to yield to the greater good, or society's expectations. While he might not usually care, particularly, about other people's 'feelings,' and may well have a cavalier attitude toward their importance, he never (well, rarely) deliberately caused pain. (If only because he had better things to do than deal with the fall-out.)

So, he virtuously tried not to make John's already challenging day more difficult.

It was just unfortunate that his own day went downhill when Mycroft showed up around 3:00 in the afternoon.

John's lawyer had left about half an hour before—and Sherlock was quite sure that Mycroft knew the minute he'd stepped onto the pavement. His brother had probably had his car idling and ready for him to rush over at the first opportunity. He would likely have expressed his condolences anyway (because Mycroft was nothing if not a slave to social conventions), but with these deaths elevating John to the peerage? Mycroft had probably been slavering at the chance to see John all day. Like he had told John—Mycroft had a ridiculous amount of respect for the institutions of the British monarchy and its peerage system even if they were largely meaningless these days.

Mycroft actually knocked at the door before entering the flat. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

Sherlock sniffed. As if Mycroft had ever cared about interrupting. Harry's head came up just as John stepped out of the kitchen. "Mycroft," was all he said, then, "Have you met my sister? Harry, this is Sherlock's brother, Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, my sister Harry."

"Lady Harriet," Mycroft said with a nod. "My condolences on your loss. And yours … Lord Brandon."

Sherlock smirked as he watched John wince. His brother was usually so much better at reading cues than that. "Please, Mycroft. I'm not ready for that title yet. What happened to calling me John?"

Mycroft's eyebrows lifted. "It seemed disrespectful without your permission, John. I didn't want to presume."

John gave a snort. "One thing I've learned about you, Mycroft—you're all about presumption. I'm the same man I was yesterday. If you start treating me differently, I won't know what to believe. Sit down, won't you?"

Sherlock enjoyed the expression on his brother's face—it was so rare anyone pointed out his inconsistencies to him. Leave it to John, he thought with a surge of affection.

John meanwhile hesitated at the doorway and then shook his head, obviously deciding against the tea he'd thought to make. (John being in the kitchen meant tea at least 77% of the time, Sherlock had observed.) Instead, he walked over to the couch and sat down next to his sister.

Harry had been remarkably silent all afternoon, content to curl up on the couch (still in John's pyjamas) and just let the conversation flow around her, sniffling occasionally. She hadn't even touched her phone, he'd noticed, or seemed eager to leave for her own flat anytime soon. Now, as her brother came to sit next to her, she leaned toward him, resting against his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and saw that he looked as surprised at this as he was. It wasn't that they had never seen siblings showing affection before, but knowing how little John and Harry actually liked each other … it was unexpected. Even allowing for the family tragedy—Sherlock could quite clearly remember when their father had died. About the only 'affection' he and Mycroft had shown had been a temporary armistice on hostilities until after the funeral.

But then, he already knew John had had a much better relationship with his father than they ever had with theirs.

Sherlock was surprised, though, that John was ignoring Mycroft. (Though, admittedly, he was entirely enjoying the sour grapes expression on his brother's face). After a few minutes of whispering to Harry, though, John looked up. "How are you, Mycroft?"

"I believe that's meant to be my question, John. Is there anything I can do?"

"Not at this precise moment," John said, "Though it's possible we might have some security problems once this news gets out. Nobody's going to expect an earl to be living on Baker Street, running around helping his flatmate solve crimes. I suspect there's a media frenzy coming. I hesitate to ask, but…"

"I'll see what I can do," Mycroft said. Noting the crinkle at the corner of his eye, Sherlock knew he'd already put steps in motion for just that. "Have you considered removing to another, more secure location until after the funeral?"

John rested his head on top of his (unusually silent) sister's, and said, "The burial will be at the family estate, so obviously we'll be going there eventually. There will be … things … I need to do while I'm there that might take longer … but I don't want Sherlock or Mrs Hudson bothered."

Sherlock stiffened. Didn't John want him with him? "Mrs Hudson will appreciate that, of course, but I'll be with you, John, of course."

John just blinked, and Sherlock tried not to feel hurt at the surprise. "Really? I didn't think you'd want to be away from The Work that long."

A point of warmth inside his chest pulsed, lessening the cold that had just gripped him. "Normally, no, but even I know you don't abandon friends in their time of need, John. Funerals are tedious, but I wouldn't make you face this on your own—you and Harry, that is."

"I … that would be … thank you, Sherlock," John said, looking uncomfortable as only an Englishman can when feelings are being discussed. "Mrs Hudson would probably want to come for the funeral, too. It's just that, after…"

"You'll have even more tedious business to attend to," Sherlock said. "I understand perfectly. Unless you don't want me?"

"Quite the contrary," John said, "If you can bear the boredom, I'd be glad to have you. You're welcome, too, Mycroft."

It was obviously just a polite invitation, Sherlock thought, and was relieved when Mycroft said, "Thank you, John. I would very much like to attend the funeral, though that will be all the time I can spend away from the city, I fear."

#

To Sherlock's relief, Mycroft didn't stay for much longer. He'd come to pay his respects and apparently felt that was sufficient. Not long after, John—almost grey with fatigue—excused himself to catch some sleep upstairs, leaving Sherlock with Harry.

Alone, he sat and studied her, taking in the dark circles under her eyes, the tiredness in her shoulders. He wondered if he was expected to strike up a conversation with her, or if it was okay that he continue sitting in silence.

It actually took him a few minutes to realize she was studying him as carefully as he was studying her. "You have questions," he said.

Harry nodded. "I'm just trying to make out exactly what the deal is with the two of you."

"And what conclusions have you reached?"

"You're very protective of him," she said, and he nodded. Obvious. "That's unusual, you know. John is usually the one being protective. He's made an entire career—two!—out of taking care of people. Reading his blog, it sounds like that hasn't changed, either. He seems to spend a lot of his time looking after you, complaining all the while in that way he has that says he doesn't really mean it. He likes feeling needed, my brother. It's one of his most annoying traits."

"You called him Saint John last night," Sherlock said.

She nodded. "He drives me mad, always trying to be so perfect, trying to fix everything. He's been like that since we were children and it always brings out the worst in me. Well, you've an older brother, too, so you know."

That was unexpected. Sherlock tried to think of his relationship with Mycroft as seen through this filter. Harry said John was annoying because he tried to fix things, but he'd always supposed that was just _John_. Was it a normal big-brother thing? Did that explain Mycroft's annoying predilection for interfering in his life? That would mean that Mycroft and John were … alike? He repressed a shudder. No. That wasn't true. Unlike Mycroft, John largely left Harry to her own devices.

Still, he supposed that the initial inclination, the spark of instinct of ensuring your own family survived, might be the same. "Your brother is the best man I know," he finally said softly.

"Me, too—but it doesn't mean we get along. Quite the contrary, in fact. God, I could use a drink." She ran her hand through her hair and Sherlock braced himself. He couldn't allow John's alcoholic sister to drink in the flat, could he? But thankfully, she wasn't asking. "My point, though, is that, despite all the fighting and as much as he drives me mad, he's still my brother. I wasn't kidding before when I said nobody gets to abuse him but me."

Sherlock met her gaze steadily, refusing to back down. "I feel exactly the same way. Nobody but me. He's been hurt too badly."

They glared at each other in silence for a few minutes, neither wanting to cede the privilege of protecting John (which in itself would have seemed ridiculous because he would hate being looked after, but, well it was _John_). Then Sherlock asked, "Why does he have your phone? I thought it was because he couldn't afford one, but…" And, really, he wondered, why had John needed a flatshare in the first place?

Harry glanced toward the stairs, then said, keeping her voice low. "He didn't tell anyone when he came back, after he'd been shot. Instead of coming home to be taken care of, or even letting any of us know he was back at all, he came to London all by himself and tried to make ends meet on his pension while he suffered through the physical therapy … can you imagine?"

Sherlock could, because that's exactly what he had seen when they met. He actually felt a little better that his eyes hadn't deceived him—and neither had John. What he'd seen in John—a struggling, wounded army veteran—had actually been true. "So, what happened?"

"You have to realize, none of us knew. We were still getting emails, and even Skype chats, for God's sake, so we didn't suspect. And somehow the army never contacted anyone about his being hurt. Don't ask me how. We had _no idea_ any of this was happening. That he had been shot, that he was back in London. No idea. It still makes me furious to think about it."

Sherlock nodded. Concealing valuable data was one of the biggest sins in his eyes, and he could feel her frustration that John would be so intransigently stubborn about coming back on his own terms. It sounded like the John he knew, though—refusing help from anyone, refusing to show weakness. Insisting he could deal with his problems on his own—a trait he shared with Sherlock, in fact. "What happened?"

"I was in London to meet a friend for lunch, and … I couldn't believe my eyes. For a minute, I honestly thought I was seeing a ghost—like one of those stories you hear about, when a loved one dies and their spirits stop by to say goodbye? But there was no way the ghost of my brother could look so…"

She paused, eyes bright, and Sherlock tried to picture the John she'd seen, remembering how broken he'd been when they met. He remembered the lost look in his eye.

"He made me promise not to tell anyone he was back," Harry said after a moment. "He told me he was working some things out, and didn't want to burden Father with any of it. I pressed my phone on him right then and there because he didn't have one, and told him I'd better hear from him at least every other day or I was going to tell _Grandfather_, which, believe me. He was the sweetest man ever, but you did _not_ want to get him angry." A brief smile lit her face as she remembered.

Sherlock considered what she'd said. "That sounds like John, that he would want to deal with that on his own before telling anyone."

"Yes, except it was utterly stupid," she said. "If anything, our family is annoyingly helpful. He should never have needed to do that alone."

"Except that some things you need to do for yourself," he said, surprising himself. "Perhaps John just needed to resolve it for himself before letting the rest of you in."

"Maybe," Harry snorted. "Anyway, luckily for John, he met you, because having you to chase after did wonders for him. I'd found his pathetic little blog by then, and when he started writing about cases with you … well, I was afraid he'd actually gone around the bend and was delusional, except that there were the newspaper headlines backing him up. Your website, too—which is dreadfully boring, by the way— but clearly not a figment of my brother's imagination. It wasn't too long after that that he came clean to the family that he was home and out of the army."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed as he considered that. "I imagine that was interesting."

"They were furious with him for keeping it from them, but by then, well … he was himself again. His limp was gone again, and his eyes had some life in them, which they distinctly had not when I met him. Grandfather knew your family, too, which they found reassuring for some reason—though if they'd ever actually seen this flat … I can't believe you two live here."

"Don't," Sherlock warned her. "221B is home. Don't abuse it."

"I'm not," she said. "It's just not where I would have pictured my brother to end up—though that's hard to do, anyway. He's an outlier, my brother, an aberration. An earl who's allergic to titles and prefers an army tent to the ancestral mansion?"

"Especially when you'd like the title for yourself."

She laughed. "Oh, that's rich. God, no. Can you imagine me as Countess? Even if it was possible? I'd be a nightmare. No sense of duty. My brother who's been avoiding the responsibility his whole life is going to be better at it than I ever could be. Don't think I don't know it."

"But that doesn't mean you like it," Sherlock observed.

"Do you like your brother telling you how to live your life? And I'd imagine you received more than a few lectures from your parents, too? It's something we have in common, Sherlock Holmes. We're younger siblings from good families whose big brothers are well-nigh frustratingly perfect, so why even bother?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Speak for yourself."

"Oh, because you're so unconcerned? I recognize a fellow screw-up when I see one, Sherlock, even if you have gotten your life together—with John's help, probably. He's a terribly good influence, don't you know?"

Sherlock considered. "You're wrong. Not about John being a good influence—because he is. And I suppose you could say I went through a rebellious phase, though it was more because I was bored than rebelling. But no, I got my life together on my own." He leaned forward, eyes piercing the sad, grieving, bitter-edged woman in front of him. "I just finally realized that there comes a point where you can't blame your parents and your siblings for your problems anymore, not if you're ever going to stand on your own. And so I did."

He stood up, and paused, looking down at her as neutrally as he could manage. "No, the thing you and I have in common is John, and I don't think either of us wants to see him hurt—by anyone."

And, handing her the television remote, he went to his room.

#


	5. Chapter 5

The funeral was … vast. Overwhelming. Elaborate. Crowded. Hot. An extravaganza.

Going by the news reports, John wasn't surprised at the media circus. He could even understand why this was newsworthy, he supposed. In the lack of real news during a slow week, the sudden tragic death of an earl and his son was something to fill airtime and empty newspaper columns. Objectively, he could understand that.

Personally, though, he'd just as soon banish all of them, and briefly considered how nice it must have been back when earldoms really meant something. He spared a longing thought for whichever great-great-whatever grandfather who could have people horsewhipped for stirring up trouble and gossiping about his family.

The first day hadn't been that bad, as the press corps had wondered about who the title would pass to next. (Apparently the Watson/Brandon thing threw them off.) Between the time spent with Mr Barrington and Harry, he hadn't had time to notice the frenzy the reporters were working themselves into.

The second day, though … well, as expected, the press had had a field day with the news that the new Earl of Undershaw was working as an unpaid assistant to the world's only Consulting Detective—when not working part-time at a local surgery to make ends meet. The news of his service in Afghanistan, saving lives before being invalided home for a gunshot wound, had been completely overshadowed by Sherlock's reputation as rumours of their involvement in Moriarty's string of bombings exploded across the front pages. (John could only imagine how Jim Moriarty was reacting to the news of John's inheritance. In fact, he received a black-edged sympathy card the day after the news broke, saying he wished he'd known—he would have dressed the bomb in Westwood as befitted his rank.)

From a public relations standpoint, it was a nightmare. Harry's trouble with alcoholism (which broke on the third day) was barely a blip on the radar. John found himself longing for a new serial killer, a terrorist attack—anything to distract the media from him and his family. It's not like earls were that important in 2011. Surely there was something else to write about?

John had to admit that Mycroft had been more than helpful with this. His people had not only provided security, but he had somehow stopped the worst excesses of the press, so that by the fourth day, the tone of the articles was much more subdued.

The damage had been done, though. All the attention made the joint funeral for his father and grandfather a media-inspired travesty, so far as John was concerned. Far from being the dignified celebration of two good, decent, honourable lives, it was a nightmare of flashbulbs and long-distance telephoto lenses as reporters tried to get pictures of John and Sherlock.

The service was over now, though, and they were back at his grandfather's … or, well, his, now … country house. At least here, the only nosy, prying eyes were the ones who had been invited—or, at least, could get past Mycroft's security. John wondered how many favours he was going to owe the man for this, and kept waffling back and forth between feeling badly about being so cynical and thinking that this was a Holmes, of course he was going to owe!

Sherlock had been extraordinarily helpful, and without any apparent ulterior motive. It made John feel really quite flattered. He had seen Mycroft's face when he watched Sherlock being thoughtful and solicitous and gathered that this was a once-in-an-eon kind of reaction. He could only be grateful it was being expended on his behalf.

"How are you doing?" a familiar baritone asked.

John turned with a smile. "Now that we've gotten some breathing space from the press? Much better. I really need to thank your brother for his help."

"Oh please," Sherlock said, dismissing the very possibility with a sniff. "He hates being thanked. He just collects favours owed. In this case, though, I believe he's paying you for saving my life."

John gave a nod. "I figured, but it's still polite to say thank you, and his people _were_ helpful."

"I suppose," Sherlock said with a shrug as he wandered over to the window. "Why don't you show me around?"

"But, Sherlock, I can't… There are guests."

"Of course you can. You're the earl and you're in mourning. They'll understand if you need some time to yourself. Besides, this is all insufferably tedious. I might be forced to start building a lab in your kitchen soon."

"God help you if you do," John said with a laugh. "You're taking your life in your hands if you mess with Mrs Patrick's kitchen. Jim Moriarty was a pussycat in comparison to her protecting her territory."

"So, save me. Come for a walk. I'm getting bored, John, you don't want that happen, do you?"

John pretended to think, glancing back at the mourners in the parlour. "Well, I am responsible for the lives and property here … it does seem risky, letting Sherlock Holmes get bored."

"Exactly," and this time he allowed Sherlock to lead him to the nearest door. "It's your duty to entertain me. I am a guest, after all."

#

John had insisted on stopping to leave word that he was going for a walk, but it was only five minutes later that the two of them were walking across the green lawn toward the stable.

Sherlock eyed his friend. In the last week, John had lost five pounds and was paler than his norm—though he had spent most of that time stuck inside with impossibly boring meetings followed by hours of paperwork. His dedication hadn't left much for Sherlock to actually do for him. He certainly couldn't help with the administration of John's title (or whatever one did with an earldom in the 21st century). Sherlock was self-aware enough to know that soothing, comforting small talk was not exactly his strong point—not that John would have accepted soothing.

Still, Sherlock was quickly beginning to feel useless. Useless and bored.

That combination never ended well. He either needed to find something to do or head back to London … with or without John.

In the meantime, he was being a Good Friend and trying to look after John—something he was singularly unqualified to do, really, but he was trying. And when he'd been under strain himself, he'd had people insist that fresh air was a good thing, so here they were.

"So, a stable? With horses?" Sherlock asked.

"Wouldn't be much of a stable without them," John said. "My grandfather loved his horses, so he always had some—even after he got too old to ride."

"Do you?"

"Ride? I used to." John pushed open the door to the sound of whinnies and the smell of fresh hay. "I haven't even been to the house in about five years. I was always deployed during the big, summer parties, and off-season, it was just too much work. I stuck to London."

Sherlock walked over and let a lovely bay filly sniff his palm before reaching up to scratch under her halter. "That's a pity, John. Horseback riding would have been excellent therapy for your psychosomatic leg injury."

John winced. "The injury wasn't psychosomatic, Sherlock—the limp afterward was. Believe me, riding a horse would not have been a good idea at first." He reached into a nearby bin and pulled out a handful of oats, sharing some with Sherlock before turning to the horse in the next stall. "Hello, Masters. How's the head of the stable doing? You keeping an eye on things? The mare's name is Dapple, by the way … don't ask."

Sherlock let the horse lip the grains from his hand and then petted the nose, letting her scent him. It had been years since he'd been this close to a horse, too.

"I somehow didn't think you'd get on with horses."

"Better than most people," Sherlock said. "They're not judgemental or ignorant. Their issues are much more … elemental."

"All nerves and heart, is what my grandfather always said."

Hearing the falling tone in John's voice, Sherlock turned to see him absently petting the horse's forelock. "You're reminded of him here. We should go."

John shook his head. "Honestly, I'm reminded of him everywhere these days. This was _his_ house. I've almost never been here without him, even as a kid. We'd come for long visits every summer, and while he'd be back and forth on business or whatever, he was still mostly here. I just …"

"You miss him."

"He was almost 90. It's not like I didn't know it was coming … but I never expected to lose my father at the same time. And, then the … well, it's just … a lot."

"The title, you mean."

"God, yes," John said. "I mean, really, can you see me doing this? A month ago, I needed to borrow money from you to cover the rent, and now I've got my grandfather's title, four houses and _horses_."

"You're feeling overwhelmed," Sherlock said quietly.

"You could say that. I don't know which is worse—missing them, or being so swamped with paperwork and decisions that I don't have time to. I keep telling myself things will get better. The grief will get better, because it does and I know that it does. The day-to-day running of the estate is something other people will take care of, for the most part, eventually. It's just that there's so much that needs to be done _now_. I can't decide if it it's good or bad, having all this dropped on me at the same time as losing them—it all makes an excellent distraction, but, I'm just … so tired."

Sherlock watched as John's shoulders sagged. This was a new side to John. He'd seen him lose his temper, seen him weak with relief at the Pool, but this man, in his perfectly tailored black suit might almost be a stranger. Sherlock had never seen John actually struggle to cope, and found he was at a loss.

"You … You should talk to Mycroft."

John spun around from the horse. "What?"

"I'll deny ever suggesting this to you, and you can never tell him," Sherlock told him seriously. "But he went through something similar when our father died. No title, mind you, but he inherited the estate and all the burdens that went with it and then had to cope all on his own—the grief and the sudden responsibility at twenty-seven. He managed, because he's Mycroft, but even he found it difficult. Maybe it would … help? … to talk to him?"

He had watched John's eyes widen as he spoke, but was unprepared when John said, "That may be one of the nicest … knowing how much you hate your brother…"

"Well, yes, but I don't hate _you_, John," Sherlock told him brusquely. "And all I did was recommend a conversation. I didn't save your life, or anything."

"Sanity, life … same difference." John said, a hint of a smile in his voice for the first time all day. "Either way, you're looking out for me. That's something friends do, you know."

"So I've heard," said Sherlock as John gave the horse one final pat and turned to leave the stable. They walked in silence for a moment, then Sherlock said, "Yes."

"I'm sorry?"

"You asked a moment ago if I could see you doing this, being an earl, and the answer is yes. The wardrobe, I confess, will take some getting used to if you're going to make a habit of tailored suits once the funeral is over, but the job itself? Who better than the most capable man I know?"

John had stopped, shoes creaking on the gravel path. "Me?"

"Of course, you. Who else? Admittedly, running a family, well, _business_ such as this is different than invading a country and saving lives, but there's no doubt in my mind. Stubbornness is one of your more annoying qualities, John, but useful—how else would you have managed to live with me the last three months?"

"True," John said, a hint of colour in his face. "I am known for my stubbornness."

"Considering you managed not only to turn your back on this lifestyle, but did it with your family's blessing … without getting yourself disowned or removed from the line of succession? I almost wish I'd known you then—I would have taken notes. Clearly, you can accomplish whatever you need to."

"Except getting you to keep the body parts out of the fridge," John said after a minute.

"Hmm," Sherlock mused for a minute. "Though your plan for renting 221C as a lab has merit."

"At the very least, I won't need to kip on Sara's sofa anymore," John told him. "If I need to get out of the flat, I've got options now."

"From the sound of it, you always have had," Sherlock said. "Your family would obviously have taken you in."

John shrugged. "Yeah, but they would have needed explanations. Grandfather would have asked why I was sharing with a maniac in the first place. Father would have tried to set up a flat for me, and it all would have become complicated very quickly."

He stopped to look back at the house, intimidatingly large in the afternoon sun. "I wanted my own life—something I earned, made happen, all on my own. I always did, but especially after Mum died … I mean, Grandfather was healthy as a horse. Father was, too, and I just looked forward to decades of trying to live one of those idle rich lives. I'd have had a nice little medical practice to fit in between rounds of _golf_. God, Sherlock, I would have been so bored."

Sherlock just watched and listened as, after a moment, John turned to him. "It's one of the reasons I understand about the cocaine, you know. You came from the same kind of family, so that you didn't _need_ to work or do anything, not really. You could have let the family money put bread on your plate and puttered away in a custom, deluxe chemistry lab your entire life—but it would have driven you mad. It was the same thing for me."

"Except you actually got on with your father and went off to save lives," Sherlock said, tasting the wryness on his tongue.

"Lucky for me," John said with a voice that had dropped half an octave since his last statement.

Sherlock shook his head. "It was. You would have been just as bored as I was. A man doesn't head to war just because he needs something to do, John. You craved the rush, just like you do now when we chase criminals."

"I know," John said, nodding. "The difference is that I always knew this was going to catch up with me someday. I suppose I should just be grateful I had a chance to do those other things first."

"And will continue to," Sherlock said. "I'd be lost without my blogger, you know."

John smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I feel the same way. I just … it's going to be different, isn't it?"

Sherlock stared in the direction of the house too and was all too afraid that what John said was true. This made everything different.

#

John sat by the fire and wished he could indulge in a boneless sprawl. The day had seemed endless. The funeral had been bad enough (and it had been very, very bad), but it had been followed by hours of polite conversation and questions and idle curiosity … he was exhausted.

He'd taken off his jacket as soon as the last guest had left, and it was draped on the chair behind him, with his tie. He longed to pull on his comfortable jumpers and jeans, but didn't quite dare. That kind of attire just felt wrong in this house, on this day. Everything about it was formal and structured and elegant … and everything he had tried to escape from.

Maybe escape was too strong a word. He hadn't exactly been a rebellious teenager—he'd gotten into trouble from time to time, but had never been a party kid, never gotten into drugs. He'd been too worried about his mother's health for that last year before turning 18, and after … well, he'd been focused on his studies. If he could prevent other families from the same kind of grief …

That had worked for a while. He'd gotten his medical license and mourned for his mother and then met Mary … He tried not to think about her too much, but it seemed appropriate today. She would have been so pleased—she had always been more interested in his future title than he was. His life would have been so different if it hadn't been for that car crash…

He stood and walked over to the bookshelves, carrying his drink. He put it down carefully and then ran his fingers along the bindings … ah. He slid one of the albums off the shelf with a grunt—they were always heavier than he expected—and then laid it on the table. He took a drink from his glass and then opened the cover.

God, he'd forgotten how beautiful Mary had been. Her blonde hair had been almost too perfect, glinting with shades of yellow and gold. He could still remember the way it had reflected the sun when he ran his fingers through it—even if she had always scolded him for mussing it. She had been worried about appearances, his Mary, but never superficial.

He turned the pages, remembering the road trip to Brighton, laughing and nearly breaking their ankles, trying to dance on that pebbled beach. He looked at the pictures of her with her beloved dog (Muffy? Muppy? Some cute and silly little name for a small ball of fluff). Pictures from their engagement party. And the wedding. Had he ever been that young? That happy?

He heard the door open and glanced over, nodding at Sherlock. "Reminiscing?"

"Indulging in sentiment," agreed John. "It seemed like the time." He invited his friend over with a tilt of his head, wondering if this was something Sherlock had deduced about him.

Apparently not, judging by the pause when he saw the photo of John and Mary in a spray of champagne, laughing and alive. "She's lovely," he finally said.

"She was," John said, turning to the next page, shots from their honeymoon in France. "I met her in university. She was the best thing that had happened to me after my mother died—the only thing to drag me away from the library I was trying to read my way through."

"You look happy."

"We were," John said, the lump in his throat was just getting bigger. "Right up until she was killed in a car crash a month before her 25th birthday. I was supposed to drive her to the appointment, but had stupidly broken my leg and couldn't … Anyway, Harry was driving."

He could almost feel Sherlock absorbing that information. "Was she…?"

"Drinking?" John asked, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. "Yes, she was. They really should have been all right, though. Harry wasn't drunk—they tested her at the scene. It had just been a celebratory toast kind of thing. Knowing them, they were giggling and playing the music too loud, not paying enough attention … car crashes are obviously bad luck for my family."

"I'm sorry, John."

He shrugged a bit, acknowledging it. "It was a long time ago. I just … I was thinking about her tonight."

"This was just before you joined the army, then?" Sherlock asked.

"Almost immediately before, yes," John said, still flipping pages. "I sat and felt sorry for myself for about three months and then saw a notice about how the army needed doctors and went and enlisted. My father was horrified, and Harry almost couldn't bear to speak to me—or, well, the other way around, too. I just needed … something different."

"Mm. Did it help?"

"Eventually, I suppose. In some ways it's almost hard to remember back … we'd been happy, Mary and I, but things weren't perfect. We were young and I was so concentrated on medicine… we weren't having trouble, exactly, but … well." John blinked hard as he turned over the last page. "I don't think I've looked at these pictures in fifteen years."

He picked up his glass and drained it before sliding the album back on its shelf. "I wish I could remember if this room was always this depressing."

"I don't think it's the room," Sherlock told him after a quick glance around. "Nobody's supposed to be happy at a funeral."

John's lips quirked upward. "Not necessarily so. Lots of people in my position are thrilled with their predecessors die. Or, well, maybe not _lots_, but enough."

Sherlock's forehead crinkled as he looked at him. "How much have you had to drink, John?"

"Just the one, Sherlock," he told him. "I'm just really very tired."

"Then you should go to bed. Tomorrow will be another busy day."

John gave a groan. "Don't remind me. You're right, though. I'll see you in the morning."

And with a nod, he made his way up to his too-formal room, trying not to think about how alone he felt.

#


	6. Chapter 6

After John left, Sherlock turned back to the wall of albums. He didn't know why he was so surprised to learn that John had been married and widowed so young, but somehow knowing John had suffered that loss so soon after losing his mother explained a lot. He could still remember the look on John's face when he saw the victim in their very first case together. At the time, he had just assumed the well-dressed, blonde corpse was simply too different from the soldiers John had worked on in the army, but now he realized there had been other, more personal, reasons for that body to affect John. He found himself feeling oddly grateful the Pink Lady had been poisoned and not killed in some kind of accident John might have found even harder to look at.

He pulled out the album at the far left of the shelf and found more wedding photos—this time of John's parents. The resemblance between John and his father was strong, but there was something about the way his mother's eyes crinkled when she smiled that was all John. He paged quickly through the images, watching as John's mother grew large until, radiant, she held a baby John in her arms.

Photos of John toddling in the grass, hair practically glowing in the sun. John perched on the back of a pony, held carefully by what must be his grandfather. John holding a baby sister in his lap … Sherlock was almost entranced as he watched his best friend growing before his eyes. The cheeky, friendly look of John as a young boy. His obvious charm as a teen.

The loving collection of photos ended with John's 18th birthday. After that, there were just a handful of photos of major life events—graduation, obligatory birthday and Christmas photos stuffed in between empty pages. The loss of his mother was made painfully obvious.

Sherlock wondered for a moment who was responsible for the album John had been looking at, and then realized. Mary. He slid it back off the shelf and went through again, trying to pick up clues as to her personality. Careful with her appearance, as John said, but you could see the adoration in her eyes. And in John's. He paused on a photo of John, side-lit from a window as he bent over his books, glancing at the camera with that so-familiar look of "I'm busy, is it important?" The affection was so obvious.

Sherlock tried to compare this collection of photos to those of his family and gave up. There simply was no comparison. His family had never been as affectionate as the Brandons appeared to be.

He eyed the next album along, wondering who had taken up the task after Mary's passing.

The first photo was of John in his uniform, looking resolute, thinner than he had been, favouring one leg, and with new lines in his forehead. Even before the war, John had seen more death than he should.

Sherlock stared for a moment, wondering at the games fate could play. So many factors went into shaping lives—it was one of the reasons that, boring though most people were, some were fascinating. Would John still have gone into medicine if his mother hadn't died? Had he not lost Mary, would he have considered joining the army?

It almost made sense, now, that John had kept to himself when he returned from Afghanistan—that he had tried to keep to himself, protect himself. It was so easy to miss that he was as scarred emotionally as he was physically.

And yet he didn't let it stop him, Sherlock marvelled. He might draw back to lick his wounds, might turn to a new direction rather than continue in a familiar but now-lonely track, but John Watson (Brandon) endured. He kept reinventing himself.

It was impressive, thought Sherlock, thinking about his own detours—the wasted years at school, the drugs, the continuous battle with Mycroft. John had managed to redefine himself several times—son, medical student, husband, widower, army doctor, detective, earl—and yet he had remained true to himself each time.

More, he had remained true to the people who cared about him—he might have withdrawn for time to heal, but he had never completely turned his back, or locked them out.

Sherlock turned back to stare at young Lieutenant Watson, and felt a tiny tendril of hope. John would get through this, too—this new sea change—and once he'd found his footing again, Sherlock would have his friend back.

#

John woke the next morning feeling only slightly more rested than when he went to sleep. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling of his childhood room and considered.

The funeral was (thankfully) done now. He thought about how he'd already signed much of the paperwork he needed to address, and made most of the most urgent decisions. Luckily for him, even at 89, his grandfather had been meticulous in the execution of his duties. Everything had been up-to-date, all the balances and invoices and receipts were all current—and healthy, thank God. Too many old families were struggling for money these days and, while John knew all about financial struggle on a personal basis, he wouldn't have known where to begin if Mr Barrington had started with, "Well, the bad news is…"

No, his grandfather's responsible handling of the family estate and businesses meant that, for the time being, John could pretty much just say, "Carry on," and not worry.

The relief was enormous.

He'd had some training, years ago. He did know some of what he needed to know to step into this role, but his skills were in medicine and defence (and chasing criminals, these days)—not business management. But he was lucky there, too—the people his grandfather had hired were largely competent and loyal. He didn't have to rush into any changes or rash decisions. And if he had any doubts about any of them? All he'd need do would be to introduce them to Sherlock and he would know right away if they could be trusted.

He might even be able to take the day to just … absorb some of this. The funeral was behind him, the biggest decisions taken care of, and … barring Sherlock getting a new case or making anything explode … the idea of just staying here for a few days before heading back to London had enormous appeal.

He thought again about the horses in the stable, and how long it had been since he'd ridden. He thought about how Sherlock said he used to ride, and wondered … His eyes turned toward the window. It looked like a beautiful day.

Part of him couldn't help but laugh at the idea of him and Sherlock riding together—it seemed like such a ridiculously upper-class thing to do, especially for two blokes who spent their days prowling the streets of London for criminals. Maybe a walk would be more apt, he thought as he dressed. He could ease into this country thing in stages—it wasn't like there wasn't a staff responsible for exercising the horses, after all.

His optimistic mood held strong until he approached the breakfast room and heard the voices. Harry and Sherlock, having one of those intense, almost whispered conversations that were the polite versions of all-out, full-volume screaming matches.

"Just leave it alone, Sherlock," Harry was saying. "I just buried my father."

"John just buried his, too, but he managed to avoid getting drunk last night."

John froze. Harry had been doing so well. How had he not realized that last night would be a danger night for her? He'd gotten so caught up in his own memories, he'd neglected to check on her. Not that it would have mattered. None of his interventions had ever worked; if she didn't choose to stop, she wouldn't. He knew that, but this wasn't just Harry having a bad day. Their _father_ had just died. He should have realized she would want to drink last night of all nights.

On the other hand, maybe one of these days he would remember Harry's drinking wasn't something he could fix.

"Yes, well, his Ex didn't come to the funeral, did she?" Harry's voice was harsh.

"I couldn't really say. Not in corporeal form, certainly," Sherlock said, "Though I don't know how you feel about the notion of an afterlife. Maybe you prefer to believe she was there for him in his hour of need."

John could almost feel the temperature drop from his place in the hallway. "He told you?" Harry asked, tentative.

"He said car crashes were bad luck for your family."

"I try not to think of it," she said. "If I did, I'd never get in another car. That's four generations car crashes have wiped out, though I suppose Mary wasn't blood. She was family, though."

"Four?" John recognized the bloodhound-on-scent tone to Sherlock's voice and, hoping to divert him, stepped forward, cursing himself for delaying to eavesdrop. But it was too late. Sherlock had already made the connection. "Of course. She had an appointment, and you stopped for a celebratory drink. How did I not see that?"

"I wasn't drunk," Harry was saying as John stepped into the room, met by two pairs of eyes—one surprised and one measuring. "I wasn't," she repeated.

"I know you weren't," John told her, taking in her red-rimmed eyes and pasty skin under its makeup. "It was an accident, Harry. I've always known that."

John was totally unprepared for her to launch herself into his arms. How much had she had to drink last night, he wondered as she sobbed "I'm sorry" into his shoulder and he stared at Sherlock in shock.

To his relief, he didn't see that hated, condescending sympathy in his friend's eyes. John had had enough experience with grief (personally and professionally) to know the difference between real, honest concern and the kind you show because it's polite, or you're after something. Knowing Sherlock, knowing how he shammed emotion on cases, for a brief moment, he was afraid he'd see that fake, false sympathy he hated so much.

To his relief, though, his friend's face was neutral as he met John's eyes over Harry's head. He didn't burst into profuse expressions of sympathy, but he looked almost tentative as he said, "Mary was pregnant."

John nodded. "It was still new, but … yeah."

He watched Sherlock glance down at his leg, and nodded again, astounded as always at his flatmate's ability to put random bits of information together. "I would have been the one driving, but I'd just broken my leg riding. I walked on it too soon to get through the funeral. It took months to get rid of the limp."

"You said there had been a real injury—just not in the war," Sherlock said, obviously mentally filing that away. "Your brain obviously connected the trauma to your injury in Afghanistan. But … you're not limping now?"

Harry had twisted around in his arms to glare at Sherlock. "Have you never heard of tact?"

"It's okay, Harry," John told her, as he watched his friend. "I don't know. You said yourself it was psychosomatic—I don't know if it was the bullet, or losing my career, or what, but somehow getting shot brought back the old injury. Maybe, traumatic as this is, I'm not limping now because, this time, I'm not as alone."

John watched Sherlock nod, and was sure he was processing the information and extruding his own series of deductions on why a war wound would pull up a psychosomatic limp from when he'd lost his wife and unborn child, but losing his two father figures wouldn't. His deductions would probably be fascinating, even if John really didn't want to hear them just now.

John looked down at Harry and gave a sniff. "You've been drinking?"

The shame poured into her face, pulling the features down, making it hard for her to pull her head up into a nod. "I couldn't help it."

Of course she couldn't, he thought. He knew all about her array of excuses, but had to admit that if you were going to get drunk, a parent's funeral was as good a time as any. But still, the words slipped out. "Did you even try?"

Now she pushed herself away. "Because you're so perfect? I _said_ I was sorry! I don't need you judging me—either of you!"

"I'm not judging, Harry…"

"Of course you are! You always do. You always have."

John was really just too tired to deal with her recriminations, but he had had just as bad a week as she had (worse, he thought). Not only that, his optimistic mood had been killed, murdered by Harry's toxic attitude. "You can make all the excuses you want, Harry, but your drinking problem is not my fault," he told her, struggling to hold onto his patience. He hadn't even had his tea yet.

"That's a lie, and you know it. You've never forgiven me for that accident. I live with that _every day_."

"And you think I don't?" John asked, incensed. "I lost my wife and my son, but it was an accident, and it was fifteen years ago. I haven't let it control my whole life."

"I'm supposed to believe that, John _Brandon_?" Harry asked, practically spitting out the name to make John wince. "You can't even bear to hear your own _name_. You're just as haunted as I am."

"Believe me, I'm haunted by a lot worse than that—and if you're trying to use that as an excuse, it's not working, _Harriet_." John spat back. "Because if you haven't noticed, I'm _not_ an alcoholic. I'm not drowning my woes at the bottom of a vodka bottle and letting an accident that wasn't even my fault ruin my life almost two decades later!"

"Because you never let me forget it!"

John was dumbfounded. "How can you even say that? We haven't talked about Mary in over a decade."

"I know. It just sits there, like the elephant in the room, every time I see you. Every time … I see the family you should have had. I couldn't make it work with Clara because I kept thinking about how you were alone, how you went to a bloody war zone because you couldn't stand to be in the same room with me. And then you almost _died_ and you didn't tell any of us, you didn't care enough to tell us you _had been SHOT_! You can barely even look at me, and every time you do, it feels like you're accusing me all over again, blaming me for Mary."

There was movement by the door and he saw one of the maids standing stunned, a tray of pastries in her hands. Lovely, now everybody would know … he'd forgotten the drawbacks of living with household staff. How very Upstairs Downstairs of them to provide such juicy gossip, he thought, as she bobbed a tiny curtsey and hurried out of the room, taking her tray with her, to John's regret. If he had to have this conversation, couldn't it be on a full stomach, at least?

But then, he thought as he turned back to Harry, maybe that wouldn't be such a good idea. How could she still feel like this? Like he still blamed her? His stomach clenched at the thought. Because, yes, he admitted it. At the beginning there had been times he had blamed her … of course he had. She had been driving, and it didn't matter that it had been an accident, that the other driver had been at fault … she had been the one in responsible for their car. It didn't matter that he knew full well that Harry's actions had been blameless—emotions, as Sherlock was so fond of noting, were not logical.

It had been one of the reasons he'd left—he had needed to get away from the entire situation to regain perspective, to try to heal. He hadn't wanted to blame Harry, so he'd left. His head had known it wasn't his sister's fault, and he hadn't wanted to burden her … she'd barely been 21. She wasn't supposed to still be carrying this guilt, not all these years later.

"I'm not blaming you, Harry," he said, striving for a calm, collected tone. "I never did, not really…."

"Ha! Of course you did. Anyone in your position would have—I certainly would have if it had been the other way around. If you'd been driving a car that Clara was killed in? I would hate you for it. Brother or not, I _would_. So don't think you can stand there and tell me you don't hate me for it."

"I don't," John told her, but she made a disbelieving noise. "God, everything just _has_ to be about you, doesn't it? I'm not saying that there weren't times in the week after the accident I didn't question it, Harry, but that's almost 15 years ago. Since then I've seen more people than you can imagine die and have almost died myself more times than I really like to think about—as recently as last month when a madman strapped me into a bomb."

He deliberately did not look at Sherlock as he said it. That moment at the pool had been the only time he'd seen a crack in Sherlock's façade, and he couldn't deal with his guilt as well as Harry's right now.

"Believe me when I tell you, Harry. It's. Time. To. Get. Over. It. The world doesn't revolve around you, Harry, or around the fact that a stupid kid got drunk and slammed into the car you were driving when you were 21. I know it was horrible, I know you feel terrible, but for Christ's sake …_get over it!_ Stop using me and Mary as your excuse to get _drunk!_"

The words rang around the room, getting caught in the corners as they ricocheted and echoed in his ears. He tried not to wince. He couldn't remember the last time he'd truly yelled at someone, but Harry had always been able to get around his defences. Siblings did that, he supposed, trying to catch his breath as she stared at him for one long moment before bolting from the room.

John slumped into a chair, still resolutely not meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Well, that went well."

"I think we need to work on your definition of 'well,' John." Sherlock's voice was soft.

"There you go, Sherlock, criticising my vocabulary again," John said, trying for a joke.

"You make it so easy." Sherlock's voice was light, but his face was serious, measuring, and John didn't want to know how many things the man had just deduced about him.

All he really wanted right now was some tea. (Well, that or something rather harder, but considering he hadn't had breakfast and had just gotten into a fight with Harry about drinking, he'd stick with tea.)

"I wonder how long it will take for the maid to summon up the courage to bring that tray back," he finally said.

"The look on her face was quite illuminating," Sherlock said. "I don't think she realized that upper class people yelled at each other like that. I'm guessing your grandfather didn't?"

John forced a smile. "God, no. He was far too well-mannered, but Mum never liked us putting on airs. It's one of the reasons she insisted on the local school for us. She wanted us to be able to talk to normal people as easily as grandfather's compatriots."

"Which explains the accent," Sherlock said with the air of someone solving a mystery.

"Which explains the accent, and the yelling," confirmed John. "It came in handy in the army, too." He stood back up and walked to the sideboard. At least there was tea, he thought, as he poured himself a cup. "Our mother was a democratic thinker."

"The opposite of mine, then," Sherlock said. "I believe she thought longingly of the days when anyone beneath our station would have kept their eyes on the ground as she passed—if they didn't actually grovel."

"That explains a lot about Mycroft, then," John said with something resembling a real laugh now.

"Oh, yes," said Sherlock, "Though luckily for our democratic political system, he learned diplomacy from our father—I shudder to think of the repercussions had he followed out mother's views when he went into the government."

"Heigh ho, welcome back, feudal system?"

"Exactly. Mummy would have been so disappointed with the way he turned out."

"Because your tendency to relate to the criminal element wouldn't have worried her at all."

Sherlock smirked. "Oh, she was absolutely appalled. It was wonderful."

Now John did laugh. "And I thought Harry had been rebellious. You must have been a nightmare as a teenager."

"John, I'm disappointed. Are you saying I no longer qualify as a nightmare? I'll need to work harder."

"Oh, God," said John. "As if playing the violin at all hours and stashing body parts in the fridge isn't bad enough—it could be worse?" He didn't know whether to be amused or horrified.

The smile on Sherlock's face didn't help, as he looked past him and said, "John, you're going to scare your breakfast away again."

Turning, John saw the maid from earlier back with her tray, but looking as if she was ready to bolt again. "I'm so sorry," John told her, waving her in and resisting the urge to snatch the tray from her hands. "We're just joking, honestly. He just does experiments and isn't always as careful about bio-contamination as he should be, but it's for science and helping the police so it's nothing you need to worry about."

Christ, he was babbling.

"Of course, my lord," she said, eyes wide.

John tried not to roll his eyes at the title. He was fairly confident that he would not be able to convince the staff to call him John, and he supposed he would have to get used to it. "Honestly, I'm sorry you walked into a family fight before. What's your name?"

"Rose, sir," she said, putting the tray down on the sideboard. She gave him a sideways glance and then took one of the waiting plates and put a Danish on it. Walking it over to the table she placed it in front of him. "The cook wasn't sure what you'd be wanting for breakfast, sir, and said I was to ask what you would like. She sends her apologies for not having it ready."

"Oh, please, this is fine," John told her. "I usually just make myself toast as I run out the door." He saw her blink, as if absorbing the shocking knowledge that the new earl was accustomed to making his own breakfast. "Still, it's going to be a full day, so … perhaps some eggs and bacon?"

"Yes, sir, right away," Rose said with another little curtsey. "And you, sir?"

"He'll have the same," John said firmly before Sherlock could answer, and then held his tongue while the girl backed nervously out of the room. "I think we scared the poor girl, Sherlock."

"She's nervous around male authority figures," Sherlock said, "Ever since her father … well, never mind. What are you doing today, once you've finished the huge breakfast that no doubt is coming?"

"After _we_ finish breakfast, you mean?" John asked. "I need to get out of the house for a while—would you be up for a hike? Or a ride?"

Eyebrow raised, Sherlock nodded and John couldn't help but smile as a bit of his earlier optimism returned. Maybe it would be a good day, after all.

Right until Sherlock said, "Besides, John, it's only a matter of time before your staff discovers your blog and finds out what you really do with your time."

#

Sherlock reined in his horse and took a moment to admire the view. He had to admit John's ancestors had done a fine job caring for their land. He turned his head to say so to John, but paused at the look on his face. John was looking out at the valley with wide-eyes as he rubbed at his thigh. Hmm. Not good.

Now that Sherlock knew more about the provenance of John's psychosomatic limp, its reappearance now was not surprising. If he had hurt his leg while riding and then suffered through the funeral for his young wife and son a week later … it made sense that now, riding a horse on the same land the day after the funeral for his father and grandfather, he would feel a resurgence of that old pain.

He wondered if John's subconscious had encouraged him to take this ride for that very reason—a chance to address some old ghosts.

He shifted in his own saddle and ruefully considered that he was likely to be stiff himself later on. It had been years since he'd been on a horse. He said as much to John, then asked, "Have you ridden … since?"

"Since Mary's funeral, you mean?" John asked without taking his eyes from the prospect. "Not really. I rode a camel in Afghanistan once or twice, but that's completely different—and not something I'm eager to do again. But mostly, no."

"Did you … want to talk about it?" Sherlock asked cautiously, not really sure he wanted to know the answer, but trying to be supportive (or whatever friends were supposed to do).

John shook his head. "It was a long time ago. It almost feels like it happened to a completely different person. It's just that … being back here brings it back."

"Especially since you're here for a funeral."

"Yeah, that doesn't help. I'm surprised you didn't see them, at the cemetery yesterday. I should have introduced you."

Sherlock thought back. There had been a moment when John had turned away to pause at another grave, but he had been being _nice_ and hadn't looked at the name. He had assumed it was John's mother. "Unless you've got paranormal abilities you haven't mentioned, I'll remind you that you can't speak to the dead, John."

"Nonsense," said John firmly. "You can talk to the dead all you like. It's when they start answering you need to worry."

"True." Sherlock couldn't hide his smile. It was good to see John's usual good humour starting to reassert itself. "I would have liked to have met them," he said after a moment.

John was absently massaging his thigh as the horse shifted under him. "It's weird to think my son would have been a teenager by now. Can you imagine? Listening to God knows what kind of horrific music, getting piercings or tattoos, maybe—which his mother would have hated. Mary always said, 'Imagine how it will look when you're 90,' and would just shudder when anyone mentioned tattoos—not that they were as popular back then."

"Or he would have been quietly respectful and polite and doing his best to make you proud of him," Sherlock said. "Though the music would probably still be dreadful."

"Says the man who doesn't listen to anything written since 1895," John said with a grin. "It's true, though. Most Brandons are pretty responsible."

"Would your son have been a Brandon or a Watson?" asked Sherlock, curious.

"A Brandon," John said. "I used Watson through school, but switched back to Brandon when I married Mary. At that point, if things hadn't … happened … I would likely have done the things I was meant to do. Get a medical practice, raise a family, be a help to my Dad… I probably wouldn't have switched back to Watson if I hadn't joined the army in an attempt to reboot my life, for all the good that did me."

"Quite a lot, I would think, since it shaped the man who has become my friend. Think of all the lives you saved that would have been lost," Sherlock said, trying to find the words John needed to hear. "Including mine."

"The army had other doctors," John said with a shrug as he glanced over. "But I would have missed you."

Sherlock was unexpectedly touched. "But as Viscount Brandon, or whatever title you would have had, you would never have been abducted and wrapped in a bomb."

"Maybe not, but I wouldn't have gotten to watch you in action, either," John said. "If anything, the only Holmes brother I would likely have known would have been _Mycroft_."

"Perish the thought," Sherlock said with a shudder. "Though it's unlikely he would have kidnapped you, then."

"Probably not, but do you know, I don't really mind that first one anymore? Both of you did me a lot of good that night—getting rid of my tremor and my limp and giving me a shot of adrenalin and a purpose again. I wish he would _stop_ sending black cars around to kidnap me because at this point it's just gotten rude, but a little mystery did me good that first night—even if I was completely confused. Calling himself your archenemy."

"Luckily, you're often at your best when you're confused," Sherlock told him, giving the horse a nudge with his heels and starting down the hill as John sputtered behind him.

#


	7. Chapter 7

Trying to hide a grin, John paid the cabdriver and turned to follow Sherlock past the police tape.

Sherlock had been letting him pay for taxis a lot more often since they'd returned to London, not that John minded, exactly. It wasn't like he didn't have the money to cover a few cab fares these days. Or the rent on 221C, which surprisingly had worked out remarkably well. Sherlock had his own lab space and John had a food-only refrigerator in a flat that had lost the worst of the chemical smells. They had added some extra insulation around the doors of 221C to keep the smells and fumes away from Mrs Hudson, and so far, the new plan was working well.

Of course, this meant there were hours when John and Sherlock were in different flats, but that had worked out better than John expected. Sherlock was usually either in 221C at night when John was asleep upstairs or during hours when John was attending to what he referred to as his "earl business."

If he could just get Sherlock to stop texting him to request things like the pencil on the other side of the flat while he was two flights upstairs, everything would be perfect.

They had stayed at the estate for a week after the funeral while John caught up on more of the business end of his new affairs, but by the seventh day of sunshine and fresh air, both of them were clamouring to get back to London's familiar smog.

John had, in fact, inherited five houses—the ancestral estate, a hunting "cottage" in Scotland, a house on the Riviera, and two London townhouses. It was the last that caused him the most trouble. Clearly, the house and estate that had been in the family for generations and gave them the name Undershaw was going nowhere. The other two weren't important to him at all—he could sell them or rent them as he chose with nary a qualm.

The London houses that had belonged to his father and grandfather, though—that was another story.

He certainly didn't need both of them. First of all, he wanted to stay on Baker Street with Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. (He hadn't been joking about 221B being the first real home he'd had since he turned 18.) He was, though, an Earl now, and there were obligations that went with the title. He might not need to "entertain" often (or ever, if he could help it), but having a living space that befitted his new station was probably a good idea. Not because he cared himself, but because other people did. They might be the idiots that Sherlock called them, but … if he needed to exert any charm or power with his title, he needed a reputable place to stand. He was too much a soldier to pass up a solid advantage and give up ground he would need later.

In the end, after discussing it with Harry and his cousins (just in case they wanted the property), he put his father's house up for sale. He would keep the rather stately home his grandfather had loved (and that had been in the family for almost as long as the Undershaw estate), but let the others go.

Thankfully, the rent he was paying for 221C and half of 221B wasn't beyond his new means.

Paying the staff, though, that was something else. The houses needed to be kept up, ready for when he might need them, but with him not actually living there … how could he justify paying someone to dust his grandfather's old house when Mrs Hudson received nothing but rent for all her trouble? Sure, he could open up the house for visits from family members who might want to come to the city for a visit, but still, he was going to need less staff than his grandfather had needed. Either that, or rent it out.

John had never been responsible for anyone's livelihood before, and he hated the idea of firing someone just because he was choosing to live somewhere else.

He had toyed with the idea of moving in and dragging Mrs Hudson and Sherlock with him, but that would never work. Both of them were too independent, and really, they loved 221 Baker Street as much as he did.

As he slid his wallet back into his pocket, though, he spared a thought for the driver his grandfather had employed. The accident that had killed them had not been his fault, but the poor man had been guilt-ridden. John wondered if the man's salary was less than what he and Sherlock spent on cabs in the course of a month? Not that Sherlock would want to be seen being driven around in a sleek car like Mycroft used, but having a car and driver at hand certainly would be convenient. Maybe they could buy an actual taxi for their personal use? It would blend perfectly in with the surroundings and wouldn't draw the wrong kind of attention…

He grinned to himself as he turned away from the kerb. That idea actually had some merit, and he might even be able to convince Sherlock … the trick would be making sure the driver was handy when Sherlock flew out of 221B at a moment's notice, though he supposed they could always take a regular cab to the crime scene and then have his driver meet them. They could make a new rule—if Sherlock opted for an actual taxi, he could pay. If they used John's private taxi, John would cover the expenses. The thought of a car waiting for them at crime scenes on cold, wet, rainy days like this one was immensely appealing.

Yes, this idea was sounding better and better, he thought. After all, what fun was it being an earl if he didn't get some perqs?

Grinning up at Sherlock as he ducked under the tape, he shrugged off the questioning look. "I'll tell you later. But for now, this is our first case in weeks. I don't want to get distracted."

Sherlock smirked. "Oh, please. It sounds like a six at best. Hardly worth the effort."

"Oh, please," John parroted back. "You've been as bored as I am—even more. You're as eager as I am to get back to work."

"Well, it's not every detective who has an earl as an assistant, John."

"I thought we were keeping that separate, Sherlock. I might have to put up with the title out there, but here, I'm just the same bloke that follows you around."

"Let's just hope the Met remembers."

That was a good point, thought John. After the confrontation with Sally—not to mention the news coverage—he was quite sure everyone knew about his name, his station, his title. He just hoped that, now that several weeks had passed, that they could ease back to the way it had been.

A hope, he admitted several minutes later, which had been a bit optimistic. But then, people's reactions had been surprising him since the beginning. (He chose not to think about the reactions from the domestic staff at Undershaw when they'd discovered his blog. As Sherlock had predicted, they'd all gone into collective apoplexy, with the exception of a few of the younger members who suddenly developed a case of hero-worship.)

For once, instead of breezing ahead, Sherlock kept pace with John—the better to intercept and enjoy rude comments, John thought.

Although the looks he was getting weren't so much rude as curious. Confused, even, as if they couldn't understand what he was doing there.

"You seem quite popular, John," Sherlock said to him as they wove past the gawking officers.

"And I thought the looks I got were bad when I started following you around," John said with a grimace. "What did they think I was going to be doing with my time? Playing croquet?"

"No flamingos," said Sherlock, startling John. His friend had almost no knowledge of popular culture at all, but he could reference Alice in Wonderland?

"True, but I'm watching for giant mushrooms—it would explain a lot, frankly."

"Agree," said Sherlock, hiding a smile as they approached the crime scene. Sally and Anderson were talking to each other in the corner as Lestrade examined the victim, sprawled across the carpet.

He looked up as they approached. "Sherlock," he said in greeting. "John. How're you doing?"

"I'm fine, Greg," John said with a nod. "I haven't seen you since the funeral—thanks for coming, by the way."

Greg shrugged. "Least I could do, though getting past Mycroft's security was challenging."

Sherlock sniffed. "Please. Child's play," he said, eyes darting over the victim.

"Not everyone has your skills, Sherlock," John told him, falling easily into their familiar routine with a sigh. It was wrong, he told himself, to be so happy about being at a murder scene.

He could hear whispering behind him, though, so with a glance at Sherlock, already at work, he walked over to Sally and Anderson. "You have something to say?"

"Um, no, my lord," Sally stammered. "We're just surprised to see you."

"Really? And why is that?"

"Well, because of your, er, recent loss, and, um…"

John just lifted an eyebrow and waited as she struggled to find the words. He would really need to tell Harry, he thought. She would be so pleased to hear her tongue-lashing had had such a lasting effect.

Unable to bear Sally's stumbling comments any longer, Anderson said, "Because you're an earl now, she means to say. We didn't think you'd be interested in this anymore, certainly not…" His eyes slid toward Sherlock.

"You thought my grandfather's death would make me less interested in solving crimes and saving lives?"

"No, of course not. I mean…" Sally paused as she tried to find the words. "We just thought you'd be … busy … with other things?"

"Indeed? You'd be amazed at how little day-to-day work is involved in being an earl. I have to fill my time somehow."

"But…" She stopped, at a loss.

"What is it, Sally?" John asked bluntly.

"It's just that … we're busy. It's not like we have time to go around worrying about you. It's bad enough with the Fre… Sherlock."

"Have I ever given you the impression that I need you to watch out for me, Donovan?" John asked.

"No, but, that was then…"

"I'm still the same person I was before. Do you think me any less capable just because I have a title now?"

"Of…of course not…"

"We're just concerned," Anderson said. "It was bad enough that the Freak dragged you around and put you in danger before…"

"But now?" John's voice was calm, but with that tenor that made soldiers quail.

"Now you're an earl, John. Much too good to be seen with the likes of them," Sherlock said, coming up behind him.

"The likes of…" Sally's eyes were wide with disbelief. "We're officers of the law, Freak."

"Indeed," said Sherlock. "Not exactly high up on the social scale."

"Oh, and you are?" Her voice was scathing.

"It's true, as the younger son, I didn't inherit the sizable estate my brother did, nor do we have a title, but I think my antecedents are such that John need not be ashamed … if he were the type of man to worry more about money and titles than about actual substance. In point of fact, I was in school with his cousin—not that you would know. I so seldom bother wearing any necktie, much less the one from my old school. Assuming you would know one tie from the next."

Sally's voice was rising now as she said, "Oh, it's so easy for you, isn't it? It's easy when you've got money to shrug it off, but some of us need to work for a living."

"And what do you think we do, Sally?"

"You? You don't work," she spat out. "You're just dilettantes getting in the way of those of us who do this as a job!"

"So, what are you saying?" John asked, eyes hard. "Are you saying you have no use for our services? Despite the fact that your boss invited us here, asked for our help? Or are you complaining yet again at the fact that two unpaid dilettantes, as you put it, are better at your job than you are?" She started to open her mouth, but he forged ahead, "Because I find that fascinating. It doesn't say much for your training, does it? Or your professionalism? But then, I've never seen any sign that you understand the concept of professional behaviour."

"What? How dare you…"

"You can't have it both ways," he told her. "Either I'm important, or I'm not. Either I know what I'm doing, or I don't. Regardless of my current title, my first one was Doctor, and my second was Captain—as in, Captain in the army. I assure you, Sgt Donovan, that I am as capable as ever, and as willing to help Sherlock help you solve crimes as I ever was." He moved forward, keeping his body language neutral and non-threatening, but still smiled to see her step backward. "The difference is that now I have some connections I didn't have before. If I was of a mind to abuse my new-found influence, I might just start by suggesting the police force started behaving professionally. And then where would you be?"

"Are you threatening her?" Anderson asked, dumbfounded.

"Not at all," said John. "I'm just reminding both of you how fortunate you are to have the unpaid expertise of Sherlock and myself … which is generous of both of us. You'd be astounded at what our hourly rate is. It's the private clients we squeeze in around your cases that pay our rent, you know. Now, I believe there's a dead body not ten steps away that deserves our attention?"

He pivoted on his heel and not-quite-marched back to the body, pulling on his gloves as he went. He didn't look back, but he did glance up to judge Greg's face. He was relieved to see the man trying to hide a grin. It was wrong that he had enjoyed that so much, John he bent toward the corpse, seeking any clues as to how the poor woman had died.

But still … it was important to enjoy one's work, wasn't it?

#

Sherlock practically bounded up the stairs, and then stopped short just before the landing.

The door was open.

Cautiously, he ascended the last few steps, hand on his phone. John was out, wasn't he? Something about his earl business, and Mrs Hudson had gone to the shops. There was nobody who should be here—there wasn't even a car from Mycroft out front.

And so he edged around the doorway, senses alert as he took a step inside…

…and nearly collided with a young woman coming down the hallway.

She gave a shriek and dropped the bucket she'd been holding, spilling an assortment of cleaning supplies across the carpet.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked. "What are you doing here?"

"Jane," she said on a stammer, hand on her heart and eyes wide. "I'm just here to clean, Mr Holmes, honest."

His eyebrows lifted. "Clean?"

She just stared at him. "You sound like you've never heard the word before. Yes, I'm here to clean 221A and 221B, but I was told to avoid 221C under any circumstances."

"And by whom were you given these instructions?"

"Lord Undershaw, of course," the girl said, looking even more perplexed.

Sherlock pulled out his phone.

"—Flat invaded by girl with smelly cleaning products. Explain. SH"

"—Is she there already? Be nice."

"—That's not an explanation. SH"

"—I need to explain cleaning to you? Oh right, it's you. Of course I do."

"—Very humorous. Why do we need a cleaning girl? SH"

"—I thought it would be nice to have the maid I'm paying anyway clean the house where I actually live."

"—And 221A also. Mrs Hudson does enough for us."

"—Don't scare the poor girl away. Or shanghai her down to 221C."

"—Why not 221C? SH"

"—Because, I repeat, we don't want to scare the poor girl away. Just let her do her job, Sherlock.

Thoughtfully, Sherlock put his phone in his pocket and nodded at the girl. "Fine. Go ahead." He supposed John had a point. It would be good to save Mrs Hudson the extra effort.

#

John slumped in his chair, fighting to keep his eyelids open, trying to resist the temptation to just put his head down on the table and go to sleep.

That would be unprofessional, though, and after he'd lectured Sally and Anderson on it, he wasn't going to let his own behaviour slide—not even after 27.5 hours chasing endless dead-end leads on a ring of vicious kidnappers. He would sit here and try to stay awake like the doctor and soldier he was.

Except, the problem was that both doctors and soldiers knew all about the importance of grabbing some rest when they could, so his instincts were telling him that, no, really, it was his duty to catch some sleep—even just fifteen minutes. It wasn't like he was contributing anything at the moment. He was just here lending moral support while Sherlock and the others struggled to make sense of the clues. Any help he was able to offer had drained away with his energy several hours ago.

And so he sat here, trying to tell himself that the conference table did not look like a comfy place to nap.

He was as surprised as anyone when there was a knock on the door.

"Yes?" asked Lestrade, looking even more gray than usual, but perking up a bit as he saw the attractive blonde at the door.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for … oh! Lord Undershaw, there you are." She looked relieved as John pivoted his chair to face her.

"Margaret? What are you doing here?" he asked, mentally slapping himself in an effort to wake enough brain cells to form a coherent thought.

"It's Tuesday, my lord." He just blinked at her. Obviously whatever she was discreetly referring to was important, but all he could think about were the four girls whose bodies had been found at six hour intervals since yesterday … and the fifth who was still missing as the clock marched forward into the fifth hour. "Three o'clock on Tuesday—the twenty-first."

"I'm sorry, who are you?" Sally asked now.

"Margaret Reedy," she said in her proper tones. "Lord Undershaw's assistant. You were due at the house an hour ago, my lord, and your appointment is in half an hour."

His amusement at her perfect snub of Sally Donovan finally gave his brain enough of a nudge and, horrified, he stood up. "Oh, Christ. That's today? And it's 3:00?"

"Yes, sir." She smiled gently. "I've brought you a change of clothes, and Parker is ready downstairs with the car."

"Oh, Christ," John said again. "I'm so sorry, everyone. I've got to go. Sherlock, you can manage…?"

"Of course, John. I never expected this case to go on as long … wait. What did you say your name was?"

"Margaret Reedy, sir," John's assistant said, nose crinkling slightly as Sherlock's face froze in epiphany.

"That's it! The reeds. Our last victim played the clarinet, and had stopped to buy a new reed a week ago. And didn't the latest girl's mother say she had missed band practice? Find out if they patronize the same music shops, and then check on the others…"

John stood engulfed in the familiar glow of awe as Sherlock gave orders, sending Lestrade and his people scurrying to do his bidding. Then, at a discreet cough, shook himself. Flashing a grin at his flatmate, he snatched the garment bag from Margaret's arms and dashed down the hallway to change.

It wouldn't do to be late, after all. A tribute to his grandfather at the House of Lords wasn't something he could miss—kidnapper or no.

#

"Just who do you think you are?" he heard the thug ask, as he waved his gun at John.

"The Earl of Undershaw," John told him, sitting calmly in his ropes. Sherlock was sure that he had seen him, and nodded to himself. John was playing for time.

"Right, and I'm the Queen of Sheba."

"No, really," John assured him, eyes tracking Sherlock's progress around the room. "My name is John Brandon, Lord Undershaw. Don't you read the newspapers?"

Frankly, it seemed doubtful, thought Sherlock. The man didn't look like he could read, a point on which John obviously agreed because he was saying, in his plummiest tones, "I assure you it's true. I've held the title for several months now, ever since my father and grandfather were killed in a car accident. It was all over the news."

"You don't look much like an earl to me."

"Well, no," said John, "That's because I'm in disguise."

It was all Sherlock could do not to roll his eyes, concentrating on the old floorboards he was skirting. They had taken down some stupid criminals in their time, but this one took the cake—and Mycroft wasn't even here to enjoy it.

"A disguise?"

"Of course. You don't think I'd be prowling around the docks in a designer suit, do you? You can check my wallet if you like, but really, I'm telling the truth. The line of Earls in my family goes back…"

The board under Sherlock's shoe creaked and, cursing, he abandoned caution and flung himself forward, tackling the thug to the ground. The gunshot was loud in his ear as they fell together, and he could hear John yelling as he slammed the man's head against the floor, knocking him out.

Panting, he looked up at John with a grin, only to feel the expression slide off his face in horror as he saw the blood.

#

(Note: I know, I know—just when everything was finally getting happy again…)


	8. Chapter 8

"Really, I'm perfectly fine," John said.

"Not true. If you were perfectly fine, you wouldn't be in a hospital bed," Sherlock told him.

John just shook his head, exasperation colouring his face, tinting his cheeks with a red that was a welcome change from the extreme pallor he'd shown earlier. "I may be operating at less than optimum levels, but I will be perfectly fine in a few days. The bullet missed everything important, and, yes, there was some blood loss, but that's been taken care of. I'll be home soon. I'm fine.

"Mostly fine."

"Okay, mostly fine, then," John said, "But that's still the opposite of mostly bad, and very definitely not dead. So you can stop looking at me like that."

Sherlock just blinked. "Looking at you like what?"

"Like I was about to die. Because I wasn't. Not at any time during this whole event. The kidnapper was incompetent. The bullet grazed off my rib—it's only my bad luck that it managed to get my arm, but that'll be okay, too. At least it's my right arm this time. Not being able to use my primary hand is a pain."

Sherlock was having trouble focusing on the words, and barely noticed when John trailed off. "Sherlock?"

He just shook his head, struggling to his feet as he heard other people entering the room.

He pushed his way past Harry and John's assistant and made his way into the hallway. (Had the entire city come by to check on John? Weren't there supposed to be rules to limit the number of guests? How did they even know John was here?) Why was he feeling so … uncertain? He knew full well that John was going to be fine. The injury was trifling, as gunshots went. John was awake, alert and would be fine. So why was he upset?

He groaned to himself as he saw Mycroft walking up the hallway. Just what he needed, his condescending brother here to chastise him for putting John at risk. He'll probably lecture about John taking unnecessary risks now that he's an Earl and naturally it will all be Sherlock's fault, just like everything else in the world that wasn't specifically under Mycroft's control, and let's face it, the reason he IS the British Government in the first place is because he's forever trying to control and correct Sherlock's supposed faults, but it wasn't his fault that John got shot, or, well, not really, because okay, he might have tackled the shooter causing the gun to go off, but it's not like he had tied John up in the first place…

"Sherlock. Sherlock."

He blinked and found Mycroft standing directly in front of him, a look of concern on his face. "Has there been bad news? I was given to understand the injury wasn't serious."

"What?" Sherlock said, trying to get his brain in gear. "No, he'll be fine. He's in there with his sister and his assistant. I was just … giving them room."

"You were panicking, you mean," Mycroft said, scanning his face.

"I don't panic," Sherlock said, biting the words off sharply as they left his mouth, as if by making them crisp and sharp, he could keep Mycroft away from them.

"You do," Mycroft said, "But it's rare. If John is not seriously hurt, what caused it this time?" He glanced toward the room. "Did they chase you out?"

Sherlock shook his head and fought the urge to wrap his arms around himself. "No. I was being nice."

Another glance into the room past his shoulder. "By the looks of things, I don't know that John would agree. He's looking a bit bullied."

Sherlock resisted the urge to look, and just shrugged his shoulders. "Family intrusions at times like these are unavoidable."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "That doesn't explain why you're out here looking like a gun-shy rabbit while your best friend is suffering a familial invasion in there."

He drew a breath, wishing it weren't so shaky. "It's not like he needs me … in there, I mean."

He saw a look of understanding cross Mycroft's face and just barely resisted the temptation to kick him for comprehending any of this before he did.

"You're afraid he's going to send you away—for good."

"Don't be silly," Sherlock said, but his heart wasn't in it. Even as he said it, he knew Mycroft was right. It wasn't like John needed him anymore. He had money of his own, now. Not one, but several homes were his for the taking and he didn't even need Sherlock's cases to keep busy. There were plenty of things for him to do just for being an earl—boring, dull, tedious things, but they would at least fill his time. What did he need Sherlock for?

"John Watson is not the kind of man to slough off his friends just because something better came along … even assuming he considered taking over his grandfather's title was 'better'."

"John Watson might not have been, but he's John Brandon now."

Mycroft lifted one eyebrow. "As if there's a difference? Call him what you will, he's the same man."

"Even I know that names affect things, shape events, Mycroft. I have always thought it's ridiculous that people are so easily swayed by a title or a slogan instead of actually thinking for themselves, but that doesn't change the facts."

"Are you saying John is so shallow as to be misled by, what, his own title? Even I know him better than that, little brother."

Sherlock shook his head. Mycroft was missing the point, as usual. "No, brother. It's not that John is shallow—quite the contrary. It's that he'sbrave. He'll sacrifice himself for the greater good, and has already done so. It was one thing for him to help me, to risk himself, when there was nobody relying on him, but…"

He shook his head again, unable to finish the sentence, and then pushed his way past Mycroft and disappeared down the hall, telling himself the entire time that he was not running away.

#

"How could you let this happen, John? It was bad enough when you were a soldier, but now?" Harry's voice was shrill as she leaned over the bed. For a moment, John was afraid she was actually going to fluff his pillows, but instead she sank down into the chair Sherlock had abandoned and just gave him that look, the one that always broke his heart. "How could you do this to me?"

He stifled a sigh. Typical Harry, making this all about herself when he was the one in a hospital bed. "I didn't exactly go out of my way to get shot, Harry. And it's nothing, just a flesh wound. I'm fine."

"You're in hospital!" she said, voice rising, and he winced on behalf of his eardrums, fighting off a sense of déjà vu. Hadn't he just had this conversation?

"It's nothing," he told her in as soothing a manner as he could. "I don't know why they even called you … how did you find out, anyway?"

"Margaret called me," Harry said with a sniffle as she dug into her purse for a tissue.

John lifted an eyebrow. "And how did Margaret know?" He was really quite sure that she was not listed as his emergency contact.

"I received a text alert, my lord."

"From whom?" John asked, trying not to flinch at the title, wondering if he would ever get used to hearing it.

"I assumed it was an automatic alert tied to your NHS details, my lord. When I saw you were in hospital, naturally I immediately contacted your sister."

"And you can imagine how horrified I was," Harry said, taking up the tale. "Especially so soon after Father … you could at least have called to tell me you were all right. I was frantic!"

John tried to sit up straighter in his bed, but gasped at the pull on his stitches. Damn bullet. And where had Sherlock disappeared to, anyway? Abandoning him to these two? "I would have called," he said, "But it wasn't urgent. I was going to wait until I'd been discharged so as not to worry you."

"Not worry …? You would have left me to find out on the news?"

"Don't be silly, Harry, this wouldn't be on the news. It's not like it was a major shoot-out, or something…" He trailed off as he saw Margaret shaking her head.

"That's not exactly true, sir."

"You mean this is on the news? But why?" John resisted the urge to scream into his pillow.

"You have achieved a certain notoriety of late, and as Ms Brandon says, coming so soon after your Father's tragic death…"

"Oh, Christ," John said, suddenly realizing the scope of this disaster. "I suppose they're staking out the exits?"

Damn it, he thought as she nodded. This was the last thing he needed … and where the hell was Sherlock? If anybody was going to get him out of here in one piece, it would be his flatmate.

It was the other Holmes brother who appeared at his doorway next, though. "John," he said in greeting (since John had finally gotten him to stop using his title outside the most formal, public occasions). "How are you?"

Why did everybody keep asking him that, John thought as he ground out another "I'm fine" through clenched teeth. If this kept up, he was going to need some extensive dental work.

Thankfully, Mycroft didn't respond with the gem about his being in a hospital bed, but instead just nodded. "I'm glad to hear it—as, no doubt, will the press be."

"Yes, Margaret was just telling me that they've heard—though I think you're mistaken. The press would be much happier if I were on my deathbed. It makes for a better story."

Mycroft's lips turned up in that sly smile of his as Harry squawked in dismay. "Indeed. Luckily, some of us are more concerned for your welfare."

"Ta for that," said John. "Did you see Sherlock out there?"

"I believe he went for some tea," Mycroft said, but John hadn't spent the last six months living with Sherlock Holmes for nothing. He recognized a stalling tactic when he saw one.

"Tea sounds excellent. Would you go get me some, Margaret, please? And take Harry with you?" Harry protested, but his assistant proved her worth by recognizing he needed a minute alone with Mycroft and, in a few minutes, it was just the two of them.

"Where did he go, Mycroft?"

"I told you, John. He went for tea."

John just fixed him with his Captain look. "Really? Sherlock? I'm not on my deathbed and didn't have to beg—and I saw the look on his face when he left the room. Where'd he go?"

Mycroft met his gaze calmly. "It's possible he's getting tea," he finally said, "Though it's purely speculation. I believe he needed some time."

"Time? For what?"

Instead of answering his question, Mycroft asked, "Did you ask my brother to leave, John?"

"What? No, of course not. One minute I'm telling him that I'm fine, and the next he's practically sprinting out of the room. And while I'll not deny that's a reasonable response to Harry walking into it, it doesn't explain the look on his face."

"What look was that?"

John shook his head. "Why am I the one answering your questions, Mycroft?"

"Humour me, please. What look?"

He stifled a sigh. "Desperate, though I'm not sure why. It wasn't a serious injury, after all. I never lost consciousness and didn't even need surgery, just some stitches—if more than I'd really like. He's overreacting."

To his surprise, Mycroft nodded. "Of course he is. He's afraid he's losing you."

"But I'm not that hurt!" John all but shouted, and then winced, pressing his hand against his side.

There was a faint hint of a smirk, but then Mycroft said, "No, thankfully you're not—but you could have been, and my brother is afraid you're going to decide that the work you do with him is too dangerous for your new … position."

All John could do was gape at him as his brain tried to assimilate that. "That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" Mycroft asked, one eyebrow lifted. "Your sense of duty is one of the hallmarks of your character, John, and you have responsibilities now that you didn't have when you met Sherlock. You've rearranged your schedule to fit in your new obligations. You spend hours away working on other projects. You worry about the people in your employ. It's reasonable to assume you might take this danger to your life as threatening to your obligations."

Had they slipped him a hallucinogenic while he wasn't looking, John wondered. "But that … that doesn't make sense. I mean, yes, I've had to put a few limits on working with Sherlock, but that's solely because of the time, because I need to make appointments with other people. But I also make sure everyone from my lawyer to my tailor knows that all bets are off if Sherlock needs me."

"Yes, and that's worked admirably so far," Mycroft agreed. "But until today, your life has not been endangered."

"So? What difference does that make?"

Mycroft tilted his head. "What would happen if you were to die, John?"

"I…" He stopped, unsure how to continue. "You mean the earldom? Without an heir of my own, the title would go to my cousin David. He'd likely be a better earl than I am—not getting distracted by master criminals and kidnappers."

"And that wouldn't worry you? Failing your obligations like that, having put your life at risk?"

"I've put my life at risk before, Mycroft," John said bluntly. "And my obligations would be taken care of. I don't know how Harry would handle it, but … it's not an issue. It's dangerous enough just riding in a car."

He watched Mycroft's eyes narrow as he took in the implications of that. "I was sorry to hear of your wife and son, John."

"You didn't already know?" John asked, surprised. "But then, I suppose if you didn't know about the earl thing, as Sherlock calls it, you couldn't have known about Mary. It just reinforces my point, though—going by my family track record, I'm more at risk getting into a car than I am following Sherlock around. You don't need to worry. I'm not going to abandon him."

"And if your obligations make working with him untenable?"

John just sighed and tried to shift to a more comfortable position. "I don't see that happening, Mycroft. Other than that first month, there haven't been any conflicts we haven't been able to work around. The 'earl thing' takes care of itself to a large degree, and Sherlock isn't just my flatmate. He's my friend. As you say, I meet my obligations."

"Then I suggest you reassure Sherlock that he is one of them," Mycroft said. "He doesn't deal well with emotion, my brother, and might not realize."

"No kidding," John said with a smile. "He's one of the most emotionally inept people I've ever met, but that doesn't mean he doesn't care. I saw that at the pool with Moriarty. He just doesn't seem to realize that other people care about him, too."

Now Mycroft shifted uneasily. "No, well, it's always been one of his blind spots."

"And you Holmeses aren't exactly the warmest of families," John said, leaning his head back on his pillow. "Now, if you could find him and send him back in here, I'd be grateful. Not only are they letting me go tonight, but I could use a buffer when Harry and Margaret get back."

There was a real look of amusement on Mycroft's face. "You think adding Sherlock to the mix will make things more restful?"

"What? God, no," John replied with a crinkle at his eyes. "But if Harry's picking on him, it will give me a chance to catch my breath. Isn't that what friends are for? To run interference for each other—especially when siblings are involved?"

Mycroft smiled as he pulled out his phone. "It works both ways, you know. I'll see what I can do."

#

Hours later, John eased down onto the couch with a sigh. "Did they add extra steps while we were out? I swear I don't remember that many stairs."

"Seventeen, same as always," Sherlock said as he shrugged out of his coat. He hesitated, and then turned down the hallway. A moment later, John heard the latch click.

He sighed. Sherlock could try to avoid it, but this was a conversation they were going to have. Carefully, he sat up and started to shrug off his coat, then swore as his good arm got caught in the sleeve. Between that and the sling on the other arm—which, in retrospect, he really should have taken off first—he was effectively immobilized.

"Sherlock!"

He waited a minute, but there was no sound of movement from the hallway, so he shouted again. "Sherlock! I need your help!"

With relief, he heard the door open, and tried not to look too embarrassed as Sherlock came up the hall, face carefully neutral. "Can you help me with my coat?"

A mostly hidden smile pulled at his flatmate's lips as he moved forward. "You've done almost as good a job as your kidnapper did."

"And all without trying," said John with a sigh as Sherlock eased the coat away from his shoulder. "It was stupid not to take off the sling before I started, and then I was just too sore to wriggle my way out of it."

"No worries, John. I should have asked if you needed anything before I left," Sherlock said. He looked toward the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Okay, that's it," John said abruptly. "We need to talk."

"What? All I did…"

"Sit down, Sherlock." John waited until his friend had sat down with a huff in his chair. "First, I'm not dying. Because, unless I ask, you only ever get me tea when the world's about to end, and since that's decidedly not the case here, you're freaking me out."

"I was just trying…"

"Trying to be nice, yes, I know, and it's very thoughtful of you, and all, but that's not the Sherlock Holmes I know, so cut it out."

John leaned back, resettling his arm in its sling. "Second, I'm sorry I let myself get shot tonight."

Sherlock blinked. "You were tied to a chair, John. It's not like you had much choice in the matter."

"Maybe, but I still put myself in a position to be captured in the first place and I wasn't able to distract him well enough for you to make your move. It wasn't your fault."

Now Sherlock was staring past him, not meeting his eyes. "I disagree. It was my clumsiness that caused the floor to creak, my tackle that made the gun go off."

"You can hardly be held responsible for the shoddy craftsmanship that went into that pathetic excuse of a warehouse," John said firmly. "But this was no more your fault than mine, and either way, it doesn't matter because I'm fi…"

"Fine, yes, you keep saying," said Sherlock curtly. "I'm well aware. Is there anything else? Because I would actually like some tea."

"One thing," John told him. "Tonight was an accident—none of us were at our best—me, you, or, thankfully, the kidnapper. It doesn't matter, though. If Jim Moriarty couldn't scare me away from working with you, tonight's idiot who could barely even hold a gun certainly isn't going to."

He watched as Sherlock flinched at Moriarty's name, and hoped he hadn't just made a mistake. Unlike the inexperienced thug tonight, Moriarty was a villain to be feared—or who at least deserved a wary respect.

"Things have changed since the pool," Sherlock said after a minute, fingers picking at the buttons at his cuff.

"My title," John said.

"Yes."

John watched his friend, trying to judge the man's feelings by the (lack of) expression on his face. He really wished they could have had this conversation when he wasn't so tired. Finally, though, he just asked, "Do you want me to stop? Helping you?"

Sherlock glanced up, meeting his eyes for just an instant. "Do you?"

"I asked first."

There was a long pause where John thought the conversation had ended, then Sherlock said, "No. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't."

John considered that that was probably the most self-sacrificing thing Sherlock had ever said. "Why? It's not any more risky now than the night we met. I'm always going to come running when you tell me it's dangerous."

He was surprised to see the conflict in Sherlock's face. "But that's just it. Of course you'll come running. That's what you do, but that doesn't make it right for me to ask you. Nor is it necessarily right for you, now that you have other obligations."

"Bollocks," said John. "Nothing really has changed, Sherlock—or not any more than absolutely had to. I thought we'd been doing really well, working around my meetings and things?"

Sherlock nodded. "We have."

"So, what's the problem? I'm sorry I got shot and worried you, but…"

"It just seems to me," Sherlock said in a stiff voice, "That it would be best to be prepared. I'd hate to grow dependent on your contributions toward The Work only to have you leave."

"I don't … I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock," John said, trying to remember what Mycroft had said earlier, wishing his brain was clearer for this conversation.

"Not tonight, no, but can you promise you'll be here a year from now? Five? Eventually, you'll lose interest in the cases and start focusing on your family obligations. I'm just trying to plan ahead."

"Sherlock," John said, starting to lean forward and then falling back with a wince. "Nobody can make guarantees. Moriarty could come back, you could slip and fall off a roof, I could get hit by a car … which is almost a statistical probability with my family's track record. Nobody can see the future. But what I can tell you is that if I had nothing to do but attend boring, earl-related meetings, I'd be thinking of shooting myself again. I have obligations to my family and my title, it's true, but that doesn't supersede my duty to my best friend. Unless you're kicking me out, you're stuck with me."

He watched as a hint of colour graced Sherlock's cheekbones. "Best friend?"

"Of course, what did you think? Who else would put up with all your nonsense?" John asked with a grin. "I mean, there are things I need to do, but—we've been managing so far, haven't we?"

Sherlock nodded, still not saying anything, to John's surprise.

"And, even if something unforeseen were to happen to make me need to spend more time doing boring, dull, tedious earl things, I'd still help you out. I'll be the peer with the oddest hobby—collecting criminals beats stamp collecting, any day. I'll be the envy of all at the secret Earl meetings."

Now there was a real smile on Sherlock's face, as he stood and headed toward the kitchen. "I know," he said, "You're fine, you're not dying, but I think that deserves some tea, don't you?"

#

Sherlock lifted his glass and surveyed the room. John had pulled out all the stops for this Christmas party, his first as the Earl of Undershaw. It was tradition, he'd explained to Sherlock. There was a summer fete at the country estate—which they'd bypassed this year due to the old earl's recent death—and the Christmas party. It was one of the few social obligations he had to meet as earl, and he was determined to do his grandfather, his family, and his house proud.

His grandfather had adored Christmas, he told Sherlock. "He was playing carols in November way before all the shops started doing it. Frankly, I was surprised he didn't push the season even further and start in October."

Some years, apparently, were celebrations just for immediate family, and some opened the doors to a wide range of associates and colleagues, and it was this latter type of party that John had thrown.

Sherlock maneuvered among the throng (and throng was the correct word, he thought), listening as people gushed about the decorations and gossiped about the new earl.

"He's so dashing, don't you think, Beth? And such a fascinating history! Going to war, being a doctor, and all that crime-fighting. He's like a superhero."

"Mmm. I wonder what colour his costume is. I wouldn't mind wrapping myself in his cape," Beth said, her tone lascivious.

"Oh, you! But you're late. I heard he used to be quite the ladies' man, but all that changed when he moved in with Sherlock Holmes. You want John Brandon's cape? I'll take Holmes's coat, any day. He's so dreamy, and those cheekbones!"

"Are the two of them, you know, together? I've heard so many rumours."

"That's the problem. It depends who you ask," the first woman said. "But, it's suspicious, isn't it? That he chooses to live on Baker Street with his 'friend' instead of here? I mean, what other reason could there be?"

Sherlock couldn't help himself. He stepped forward and gave a polite smile. "Purely logistics, I assure you. If John lived this far away, we'd lose far too much vital time catching criminals. The commute, you know. Really, though, you should be looking closer to home for your entertainment." His eyes flicked over their clothing, noted how the two women angled themselves together. "If you're looking for a model for gay rights, you might start by talking about your own relationship—and figure out how to break the news to your husbands. Do enjoy the party."

He eased away to the familiar sound of shocked gasps, but couldn't help his smile. The variety of women who had thrown themselves at John since his ascension to the peerage was an ongoing source of amusement for both of them. John had said quite clearly he wasn't interested in fathering an heir. Some people, of course, persisted in the belief that he and Sherlock were a couple, which they continued to deny. Instead, John frequently played the Widower card, telling people he was still devoted to his late wife.

To a degree, that was true, Sherlock mused as he edged around the room. The wedding photo of John and Mary now held a proud place in the living room, right across from the painting of his grandfather. John might not be pining, but he hadn't tried dating since assuming his new title. ("When would I even have the time," he had asked when Sherlock brought it up. "Even assuming you wouldn't sabotage every single date I tried, just like you've always done.")

No, John was busy focusing on being a good earl and helping Sherlock these days—in as equal measure as he could manage.

Ahead, Sherlock could see Mycroft and shrugged off the immediate inclination to flee in the other direction. "Have you tried the canapés? They're delicious."

"I'm not surprised," Mycroft said. "John's cook is excellent. He's looking well."

Sherlock looked across the room to the door where John was welcoming guests. "His smile hasn't frozen yet, which is something. I think he enjoys Christmas as much as his grandfather did."

"He's doing a fine job," Mycroft said, sipping at his drink. "I'm continually surprised."

Sherlock nodded. "John is an ongoing source of amazement. No wonder neither of us spotted this when we met him."

"How so?" Mycroft asked, and Sherlock hid a smirk, knowing how it rankled his brother that his intelligence people had missed so much.

"Because, no matter which face he's using, it's always authentic, and it's always John. If we had met him at one of his grandfather's parties, we never would have suspected he had a whole, separate persona. And the amazing part is that he's never duplicitous about it. He's entirely authentic within each moment. There are just always unforeseen … facets."

Mycroft watched John for a few moments, correct in his bearing, manners impeccable. "I see what you mean," he said. "A force to be reckoned with."

"He assures me that he has the best stories to tell at the secret Earl meetings," Sherlock said with a grin.

"One would certainly hope so," Mycroft said. "You must be proud, little brother."

"Proud?" As if Sherlock could take any credit for John Watson Brandon?

"Of course. Doesn't John give you the best bragging rights at the secret Detective meetings?"

Sherlock just smiled as he watched his friend across the room. "Indeed he does, Mycroft."

#

THE END

* * *

Note: I'm not perfectly happy with the last couple paragraphs, but I wanted to put you out of your cliffhanger misery, so ... Hope you enjoyed this!


End file.
